An Obsidian Grindstone
by Uirukii
Summary: In saving the life of a dying man, Jean Valjean is pardoned from his second stint in the Bagne of Toulon. Valjean then proceeds to carry out his promise to Fantine and during his journey meets up with an old adversary within the heart of Paris.
1. 1-The Tenacity of Man

Teeth had been eating away at Jean Valjean's ankle when it happened.

Above him, a sailor furling the sail lost his balance upon the yard and tumbled backwards, flipping over himself like a lopsided doll. His hands splayed open for any sort of salvation, but only found the rising depths of the sea in answer. He managed to grasp the man-ropes as he fell, hands spasming as the force of his descent and the wind swung him to and fro.

Valjean vaulted over to the officer of the watch, chain in hand as the man hung there, a living corpse at the end of a noose.

"Sir," he pleaded, "Permit me to save this man." The officer turned towards his request amidst the chaos. Sailors shivered and this fellow crew shook and rattled in their chains like ghouls risen from the confides of the sea.

A curt nod was returned and with that, Valjean seized a hammer and blasted through the chain attached to his ankle. He tossed the hammer and snatched up a length of rope and surged towards the main mast. Feet slapping upon the moist wood, Valjean leapt upon its rigging and clambered up.

A dull chattering rose from the crowd of gawkers as their attention was captured by his appearance. But it wasn't strong enough to remove the roar of blood that pressed upon his ears as he levelled with the dangling man. He glanced over and caught a glimpse of the man's face. He had hoped never to see the agony of a person between the threshold of death and live ever again.

The ropes twisted and burnt through the rough callous on his hands as he scrambled to the top. Upon arrival at the round-top, his hat was quickly snatched off his head by the blustery gale. His long white locks pricked at his eyes as he assessed the yard. The man had started contorting as if fending off an unwanted embrace.

Valjean swallowed, and raised his eyes towards heaven. He mouthed a small prayer and took a step forward.

The crowd remained hushed below; only the wind breathed heavily amongst the pressed mouths and pinched lips.

The yard felt like land beneath his feet. With that reassurance, he flew to the edge, slicing through the air. Stooping down, he quickly wrapped the rope around an iron ring, jerked it taut, and threw it overboard.

The _Orion_ groaned as it was buffeted with gale and foam. Froth lapped at the belly of this monstrous golem as it rocked in its efforts to extricate the two lives that hung to her. Yet the tenacity of the living is not one to mock: Valjean hand-over-hand repelled down his makeshift lifeline.

The sweat of the ocean mixed with his own as he slid down the rough hemp. His teeth began to ache as his jaw clenched and his brow remained furrowed.

He reached the seaman whose twisting features set him at once to his task of securing him. The deft hands tied the rope around the man's waist before knotting it to his own. As soon as the convict tested the rigidity of his handicraft, the seaman went limp as a rag tossed upon a rail.

His stomach clenched.

A collective gasp dissipated as the knot held true.

He took a deep breath and uncoiled the anger that constricted his muscles. They loosened and reassembled themselves for the climb once more.

Hair whipping about his eyes, Valjean reascended once more to the yard and hauled the sailor as one would a particularly plump fish. He brought the man to sit upon the yard to regain both wits and strength before he lifted him in his arms.

For a sailor, he was remarkably light, Valjean remarked. The man's eyes were closed as he took great, shuddering gasps that rocked his frame. His left arm convulsed against Valjean's chest; the right had lost all movement.

Despite the rocking of the boat that brought it dangerously close to the frigate moored close by, Jean Valjean walked with the confidence of one who had traversed more perilous paths.

When he had reached the round-top, a cacophony of suppressed emotion erupted and they were engulfed in a dozen flailing arms of the awaiting mess-mates. They removed their friend from Valjean's arms and helped him stand upon his wobbling legs. Burly arms gingerly wrapped around shoulders wrung from hard labour and blunt fingers ruffled through russet and white. Down below, women hugged each other, and old men wept. The roar of applause leant a colouring emphasis to the fervour that chorused, "This man must be pardoned!"

At this, Valjean started.

"My good man, that feat was amazing!" shouted a sailor, doffing his cap.

"We sure do 'preciate what you did fer Anton here," said another as he glanced down the rigging where Anton was inching his way back down to solid ground.

"I did what no other man could do. Nothing more." Valjean took in the crowd below as it swallowed Anton in a midst of open arms and mouths. "Please permit me to leave, there's work to be done below."

"Aw, he can't have that!" roared a muscular man, whose build was almost a direct reflection of his own. He punched Valjean in the shoulder. "You go and save Anton from that jealous mistress and you talk of work?"

Valjean shook his head and gestured to his red shirt, "I cannot."

The man crossed his arms and raised a burnt brow.

"Well, we will go down together then, as we all are bound for the same destination."

Valjean threw a look out towards the lower yard and turned back to the sailor. He was the only one left, and he stood there, the seafaring Hercules ready to do battle with his lion.

Valjean bowed his head and immediately jerked as a massive hand smacked his back.

"There, that wasn't so bad!" yelled the man jovially. "We are all brothers in life and death."

Startled, Valjean regarded the man. "What?"

The man silently motioned towards the rigging, waiting for him to start climbing. As soon as he began his descent, the man joined him.

"No one that puts his life in the hand of Fate for another deserves it kept locked away," replied the man, his blue eyes solemn against his leathered face and raspy hair.

Valjean's throat convulsed and he looked straight ahead at the bobbing horizon, rising higher and higher.

"You can't judge without all the pieces," he murmured into the wind.

"But one can make a pretty good assumption based on the pieces he has."

They neared the deck and the people moved back, like oil upon water. When his feet embraced the ground once more, a deafening roar erupted rivalling the ones provided for that year's May Day. His comrade disappeared into the press of bodies. Women fought to glimpse him and men pointed and made wild gestures.

Alone, Valjean began walking to search for his officer. He compressed his arms against his sides and hunched over, but to no avail.

Hands slapped, picked, patted, and interrupted Valjean as he ambled his way through the crowd. His head bowed beneath the onslaught of verbiage that assaulted him through his march. Drying salt chafed his skin and his tongue fought the stale taste of it.

He found his keeper at the same place he had left him. The officer of the watch clamped a hand upon the convict's shoulder and led him away.

The wagging of tongues kept the story ablaze long after Valjean left the site. Every step he took ignited a fresh conversation about his adventure upon the Orion. Like oil, his very presence trailed the story after him until he arrived once again at the Bagne of Toulon. Once there, a great conflagration swept through the tight prison cells, setting both guards and prisoners alight with excitement and speculation.

Throughout the winter, this particular tale kept Toulon warm with its incredulous reality and flavoured retellings. There wasn't a traveller to this port town who hadn't heard of convict 9430 and his grand adventure. When they left with their goods and wares, this spectacular story was packaged and carried along, dispersed like seeds among every tavern and inn they stopped at.

It wasn't until Valjean was at work upon the shipyard, on Easter Sunday, that he received the letter. And with that, this small city exploded once more in a frenzy of excitement and activity.

Toulon had kept their promise to see their hero pardoned.


	2. 2-Thus I Sign my Name

Prisoner 9430 was to be set at liberty at precisely 5 o'clock in the evening. However, the Commissaire des chiourmes was not present at the moment to preside over his release.

Upon finding the dimming office space bereft of his superior, the prisoner's guard flailed about for some extra means of lighting. Spotting a double set of wooden candlesticks upon a small bureau, he attempted to them, grumbling.

"Stupid convict…" The wicks danced around each other as his hands shook.

"Shift ends in ten minutes…" First candle aflame, the man moved to the second, gobs of wax dotting the pristine wood.

"And now I have to play sitter," he hacked, wiping his mouth afterwards.

The glow brightened the room considerably, but that could not be said about Jean Valjean's guard. Lanky hair dripped into the young man's scrunched face, and Valjean fought the urge to wipe his hands on his ratty trousers.

He decided to look elsewhere.

In the very centre of the room stood the Commissaire's desk, where the official letter basked, half-open and bearing the Royal seal. This desk, often described by his fellow mates as bare-boned as their serving plates, contained a few additional objects of interest.

An outfit of coarse civilian garb was folded into precise squares in a corner. On top was a small knapsack. And to Valjean's surprise, an amiable amount of provisions hugged the humble donation.

The guard that brought him sneered at the gifts before turning his clammy eyes in Valjean's direction.

"Such a big hubbub for a two-faced beggar such as yourself," he spat, the globule of spit hitting the twine around his shoe.

Valjean didn't even flinch.

He just kept staring at the offering that waited upon the Commissaire's desk. During his trial, the people he had aided, to whom he had provided money, shelter and jobs, had immediately dropped him from the bosom of their goodwill as soon as they learned he was convict. That single incantation was enough to banish years of charity and goodwill.

Now these people, whom he had not personally abetted, had given him the means to help regain his life.

His lips sewn together in a straight line and he fought to drag air through his nose. The guard grinned at his apparent discomfort, and gave him a shove forward.

"To the desk then with you!" he shouted, as Valjean stumbled forward, "Though, I don't believe a simpleton like you can even read, much less sign the honour you don't deserve."

The guard considered the various foodstuffs and wrapped parcels with his meaty fingers. He picked and rummaged through, pocketing a few choice bits here and there.

Valjean remained nearby, hands clenched as he regarded the open door. Owning personal belongings was a privilege that had never been extended to him.

The sound of leather soles beat a rhythm outside the door, and the guard shuffled a hasty retreat towards the far side of the room, directly under the tiny glass window.

The Commissaire strolled into his office, ultramarine uniform impeccable despite the crusting of grime that assailed the Toulon prison. Without the containment of his hat, short walnut locks waved with every step he took.

The room became infused with marigold light as the sun dipped its lowest and Valjean stepped away removed himself from its influence. He bowed his head slightly, with his arms fastened to his sides. He had only met this particular Commissaire a couple of times as Prisoner 9430, and he had no idea of the role he was supposed to play now.

Stopping opposite Valjean, the Commissaire took the document off his desk and flicked the yellow wax open once more. Valjean bit his lips as he waited.

"Are you the prisoner known as Jean Valjean, formally prisoner 24601, now prisoner 9430?" he stated, flicking Valjean a glance.

"Yes, sir."

"And you are here at Toulon serving out a lifetime sentence for breaking parole and for assault and robbery as perpetrated by yourself on part of a gang of robbers from the South."

Valjean dropped his head.

"For the approximately four months you have been working here, I have not read any reports on any extraneous criminal behaviour or wrongdoings," he closed and folded the letter.

"So imagine my surprise when I finally received a missive bearing your name along with a Royal pardon for upstanding morals and heroics in behalf of the citizens of Toulon!" The Commissaire ran a tanned hand over the back of his head as the guard smirked at Valjean from his corner.

Picking at the loosened threads in his trousers, Valjean continued to stare at the floor. His head buzzed and the inside of his nose stung. He hated this constant tune that always played throughout his head; the one sung by an ever-changing chorus of strangers that controlled his life with every note they wrote and every word they voiced.

His soul might belong to God, but it seemed his life belonged to everyone else.

"You will be free to go once we conclude with you understanding and initiating your seal upon these documents here." He tapped the paper against his thigh.

"As you can see, we have provided you with civilian clothing and baggage to start you off," continued the Commissaire indicating the pile with the corner of the missive.

"Also, some of our citizens offered their deepest gratitude through their only means available," he added. He turned to the desk and scrutinized the contents. His entire visage remained impassive, save a small pinching at the edge of his lip.

"Sergeant."

The man, picking idly at his wormy moustache, jolted to attention. Unlike other military men, his heels did not come together.

"I will see to this man, you may go on break," he ordered softly. "But please return at six on the hour for resumption of your duties."

Eyebrows shot straight off the guard's greasy forehead and his hands wrung together before finding solace in his cudgel.

"Yes, sir!" belted out the man. He scurried out the door, the cudgel snapping sharply against his side as it caught on the post.

The Commissaire turned back towards Valjean, and handed him the pile of clothing.

"Please clean yourself up," he said, "the washroom is down the corridor, to your immediate left."

At Valjean's bewildered look, he added, "I do not have prisoners sign documents; citizens do."

* * *

The watercloset was exactly as its name indicated; Valjean absentmindedly noted that two men of his stature would not have been able to fit in there comfortably. A small bar of lye soap and scratchy washcloth were provided alongside a washbin of cool water. Compared to the rest of the prison population, this was a luxury.

After quickly erasing the standard layer of encrusted toil and penance from his body, he gave the linen a thorough wringing. Belatedly he realized he should have started with his face, but that was something he'd recall for later. He gave his face a scrub-down along with his hair before tossing the rag into the dirty water.

No mirror adorned this washroom, but Valjean did not expect one. Instead, he moved his candle closer to the small glass window and set it on the hunk of wood that served as a shelf, perpendicular to the window. The inky night sky and the orange glow revealed a soft image of Valjean in the glass. He stroked his chin and checked out his teeth. He played with his ears, and brushed back the strands of pure white hair he now sported.

Funny. He never really observed the changes that those last days as Mayor brought to his physical being. Ever since that night he returned from the trial in Arras, he had been too consumed with worry over Fantine. Then her daughter, when it was apparent she wouldn't last. Even when Sister Simplice had made a fuss about his white hair, he had been too distracted.

Why, if he remembered correctly, he even took a gander at it in a small glass she had given him!

After that, everything became a chaotic interplay between the predator and his prey: a strategic battle of wits for insight into the mind of the other. The predator whose face hid behind layers of whiskers and cloth yet concealed no lies…

Looking back again at the window, he tugged at his errant hair limping across his scalp. He suddenly became overwhelmed with a need to cast off those dirty strands. He had no desire to be recognized on the street once he quitted Toulon.

Kicking off his right shoe, he stooped down and picked it up. He untied the twine that held it together at the toe and carefully wedged open the crevice between the sole and the shoe. Inside was a small sous coin.

Holding the edges with the forefingers and thumb of both hands, he twisted it open revealing a miniscule saw-tooth blade. He pried it loose from his casing and unravelled it, testing the sharpness of the teeth against his finger. He was satisfied that his blade was no worse for the wear.

Valjean decided that he did not want a closely cropped head, despite the heat wave that had nestled on Toulon; it reminded him too much of prisoner 24601. So recalling the only other haircut he had etched into his mind, he set to work reforming it upon his own person. The tiny blades nibbled at his overgrown locks, sometimes nipping at his fingers or ears.

His hair took on a shortened military style, but with a little more give to allow for it to slightly cover his ears and collar. He trimmed his sideburns and beard, but dispensed with the moustache for now. It wasn't the look he had as Mayor of M-sur-M nor was it anything remotely related to his current prisoner profile.

He quickly brushed the loose hair from his bare-clad body, and tossed on his civilian wear. He cast one look at the pile of prison rags and gathered them up in his fist before quitting the washroom.

If anyone noticed the change in his hair, they did not comment upon it. He was relieved of his rags by a passing laundress on her way downstairs.

He returned to the Commissaire's office who noted his presence with a raised brow. His mouth quirked for a second before he shook his head. He motioned for Valjean to rejoin him at his desk where a quill and inkwell had been placed next to an array of official documents. A form conforming the release of prisoner 9430, the Royal pardon, and an addendum list were fanned upon the desk. His provisions had already been placed within the knapsack was moved to the bureau, dripped wax banished from its surface.

"The hour grows late, and I sincerely apologize for that," stated the Commissaire as he unstopped the inkwell. "But my presence is required on the morrow, and I have this distinct feeling that you have no current desire to await my return by remaining here."

In the warmth of this foreign room, where light danced instead of blinded, Jean Valjean found himself loosening. His eyes cracked slightly at the corners.

The Commissaire directed Valjean to take the seat behind the desk. Valjean wavered and fidgeted with his shirt that suddenly began to itch.

The man gestured sharper this time and he obeyed, planting himself on the sanded wood.

"I need you to sign here," he commanded, pointing to the large space at the bottom, "This indicates that you are indeed, prisoner 9430, Jean Valjean, formally prisoner 24601, who is to be set at liberty today, April- in the year of our Lord, 1824."

Having read the document, Valjean began to sign. A giant blotch sat at the crux of his "Jean" where he fought the urge to spell out the name of a non-existent person. The quill felt clumsy in his hands as he slowly pushed out the rest of his name. Ink speckled the pristine paper as his nib caught on the paper with every letter he added.

This was the first time that Jean Valjean had signed his God-given name. His fingers went lax and the implement fell to the table.

The Commissaire took the paper, threw a pinch of sand on top, and set it on the opposite side of the desk. He slid the last two documents upon the desktop over to Valjean.

"This the pardon, granted by our King's everlasting clemency and goodwill upon your person," he stated solemnly, hands still upon the parchment as he leant in closer. Valjean noted how his nostrils flared as the man's eyes caught the light. "May you never give our great nation reason to doubt her mercy upon you."

That arresting gaze kept Valjean immobile save for his hands, which grappled with the clean linen of his trousers. He swallowed before relinquishing a small "Yes, sir".

The Commissaire removed his hold upon Valjean as he returned once more to the task at hand. His arms left the table and Valjean released a long breath through his nose. The curls bobbed about the man's head as he reread the addendum. He hummed a bit.

"Jean Valjean." He looked up; the Commissaire remained engrossed in the paper.

"Though you are pardoned from all crimes committed by your person, you will be receiving stipulations to your freedom."

Valjean jerked and his hands sought each other in comfort. As usual, his life was not his to govern.

"Because of the enormity of the crimes that sent you here, you will be put on surveillance for exactly one year from today," he pierced Valjean with a look. "It will be as if you are on parole for that year. It is to ensure that your moral standing remains high and in good spirits.

Your destination will be Paris were you will find honest work, and as you journey there, you must stop and check in with each of these officers. You can find their names here," he indicated an indented list of names and towns, "and you must have them sign here as well.

Upon your arrival in Paris, you will check in to the station at the Place du Chatelet, to receive your permanent parole officer. This is to whom you will check in every week with details on your status."

Valjean began to feel incredibly warm and uncomfortable. To report to a virtual stranger on his personal life? And in public? What rights had they to pry? His head swam, and the figure of the Commissaire became a morass of warping blues and oranges. He pressed his hand upon his headache, kneading the rough skin. He gritted his teeth as he grappled with his urge to flee.

Suddenly, a small touch propelled him out of his chair, arms wheeling as he fought for balance. His harsh breathing burnt the air around him.

"Are you alright?" asked the Commissaire.

"No, I'm sorry," blurted out Valjean, hand clasping his shirt as he leant against the cool stone of the prison. As the cold security of the sheet rock pricked his skin, he gathered his pulsing thoughts. As he contained them, the siren whispers continued to beg. _Run_, they pleaded. _Run from the fetters that bind you_...

"It's just..." he swallowed, "It's just too much. All at once." He waved towards the papers and dropped his arms.

"It's only a year, no more," reiterated the Commissaire, watching Valjean from beneath his trimmed brows. "They will not delve more than they need to. Just your work, your morality, any familial changes...that sort of information is needed."

"Familial changes?" Valjean returned to the desk and picked up the addendum, but did not sit back in the chair. The Commissaire placed his hands behind his back as he stood opposite the desk and stared directly at him.

"Marriage, children, that sort of thing. Only the ones that have to be filed and sanctioned by the government."

Valjean immediately thought of the child Cosette, the lonely child that still remained at the inn in Montfermeil. He'd be able to finally give her a home, the kind that he promised her mother. In grounding his thoughts on his task, he regained control. He started cataloguing all he needed for the month-long journey up north. Child's clothing. Enough money for settling in Paris for a couple of months. A small blanket in case they need to camp.

He frowned. If that's the case, he'd need to obtain a small oilskin coat too-

"Ahem."

Valjean broke out of his thoughts and glanced sheepishly at the Commissaire, who held the quill out along with the addendum. Not sure what he missed of his lecture, Valjean ducked his head and busied himself in reading all the fine points of what France desired him to do. Then he quickly signed the Commissaire's copy for record keeping and crisply folded his and pocketed it.

The man motioned for Valjean to take his knapsack and newly acquired provisions and strode to the open door. At the entranceway, the two men faced each other and the Commissaire held out his hand. In it was a folded square of parchment.

"This is your passport out of Toulon," he explained. "If anyone stops you here or outside, you can quell any and all questioning of your purposes outside of Toulon." And with that Valjean took the paper from the open palm.

However, as soon as he did, the Commissaire clasped his unwitting hand in a firm embrace and shook it.

"Good luck to you," he said, releasing him. "May you arrive in Paris safely."

With a nod of his head he sent Valjean on his way, and shut the thick wooden door behind him.

Strangely, Valjean found he had no need for the passport as he managed to leave both Toulon and her prison unheeded. So the note was soon forgotten in his vest pocket.

He managed to travel a good five kilometres outside of Toulon before he rested for the night, nestled in a shallow ditch and guarded by the stars.

* * *

Hello! As you read my stories, there are always the possibility that I have gotten certain historical facts wrong, so if you notice any glaring mistakes, do not hesitate to inform me! I want to keep as true as I can to the period and to Hugo's world, so any help is appreciated. :D ~Uirukii


	3. 3-A Disjointed Reveille

Jean Valjean awoke to the crunching of wagon wheels upon the dusky gravel roadway and the baying of cattle grazing beyond his sight. There hasn't been a time in years that he woke because of his body's own desires. Recently, it had been to the harsh call of the jailor or before then, to the whims of his townsfolk. Though several stones had embedded themselves into his aching back and a couple of insects crawled upon his arm and tickled the hairs, he never felt so awake and rested before.

Patting off any unwanted visitors, he surveyed the landscape. Large wooden hay wagons ambled along the path, half-filled with straw or bushels of berries. A small family were making their way south, small dog and children gambolling about the spring grasses.

He wondered if Cosette would run around like that. Having no experience with children personally, he wasn't sure. However, according to the missive he had received from the Thenardiers before his arrest and the state of Fantine, he had a strong instinct that Cosette was not well off.

Stretching in the sunlight, he popped his back and warmed his legs for the journey ahead. Snatching up his rucksack, he pulled out a handful of dry seeds and began eating them as he re-joined the path.

For the most part, he walked alone, passing a couple or two but mostly wagons and carriages on their way north. Simple greetings were exchanged and Valjean reeled at how simple it was to jump back into daily life, but to tread it was a different matter entirely. He would often bow his head, as if the chain still weighed upon his neck, and greet travellers with "Good day Monsieur or Madame". The ladies often got a kick out of it, tittering to their companions about the kind gentleman.

At noon he was still strolling along. Sweat dipped down his skin causing the coarse linen to stick to his broad chest and back. He had not even stopped for a small repast.

The rumble of gravel echoed behind and an empty hay wagon pulled alongside him. Its team of mules snorted as their pace slowed.

Valjean looked up to see a beaming old man grinning toothily at him. He doffed his straw hat and immediately wisps of hair steamed off his balding head. The hat was quickly replaced.

"Good day to you, Monsieur!" he greeted. He clicked to his mules when they tried to regain their quicker pace. "You look well-travelled. May I inquire to where you may be headed?"

Valjean scratched behind his ear, contemplating his answer.

"Well, sir, I am on my way to Aix-en-Provence for today, but my journey completes itself in Paris." He chewed a bit before adding, "I'm looking for work there."

"Ah! I see!" happily replied the man, " I am on my way there myself today, and I was thinking-as my team seems eager to haul this cart all the way to hell and back-if you wouldn't like a ride? You can lie in the back and rest up, I tell you!"

Though already walking at a leisurely pace, Valjean began to slow down, much to the annoyance of the mules. Valjean didn't know what to do about the man's offer; he didn't want to weigh down the wagon with his massive bulk. Now that he gave voice to the thought, he realized he was pretty fatigued, as Toulon did not allow for one to hone their endurance in footwork.

"Sir, I cannot impede upon your goodwill," he answered, and he gestured towards himself. "I am actually quite heavy, and I wouldn't want to impose that upon your beasts, though they seem quite energetic."

At this, the old man's face folded upon itself to belt out a peal of laughter enhanced by the hearty slap of his bony knee. Valjean jumped to the side in alarm while the mules grunted.

"Oh dearie me," he exclaimed, "I haven't had a good laugh in ages…heavy indeed!" He wiped his crinkly eyes.

"You see, I am travelling to pick up my granddaughter, her husband, and her three children for tomorrow." He gave a small chuckle. "So unless you are hiding the weight of an entire family behind that body of yours, it ain't going to be any trouble!"

Valjean stopped completely and regarded the old man as he ordered his team to halt. Valjean slung his pack onto his other shoulder.

"But you don't even know who I am, sir."

The old man smiled. "Well, that can be easily remedied." He held out his weathered hand.

Valjean gazed at that hand, thrust out precariously over a precipice that he didn't know existed until this very moment. The whisper of growing grass faded and the chirping of the birds no longer played. He drove out all external distractions in order to focus on obtaining that fragile sign of a stranger's trust.

He appropriated it, and was instantly enveloped in a warm but firm handshake.

"Name's Pierre Dupont."

"Jean Valjean." His name, often spoken with bitterness or resignation, hobbled out as he released it once more.

Their hands broke.

"Jean Valjean, eh?" repeated Pierre. "Flows nicely, don't it?" He clicked to his mules as they became fed up with their master's vacillating whims and began to graze.

"Well Monsieur Valjean, if you would very much like to, you can hop up in the back before I call the team back to arms!"

With his encouragement, Valjean left the driver with his team and crawled into the back. As soon as he flopped down upon the loose straw, the motion of his body rocked the small wagon and the mules lurched forward.

"Ah, I see, you rascals!" exclaimed Pierre. "You pull for him, but for your master, you bury your face in grass!"

The team ignored his rebuke.

"Monsieur Valjean, please make yourself comfortable. We will arrive at Aix-en-Provence by twilight, if that's the same farmstead I used as a marker from last time!" And with that, he left Valjean to his own devices.

Valjean lay back upon the bed of warming straw and breathed in the crisp scent of the stalks as they crackled beneath his bulk. A couple of errant stems jabbed him in the back, but it only served to remind him that he was a freed man.

Vastly different from a man free from prison.

How strange that it took only the word of one man in France to set him at liberty. Valjean sighed and closed his eyes. The sun beat down upon his upturned face, colouring the inside of his eyelids vermillion.

Yet, no stranger than the word of the other that sent him there.

As they drove along the dusty country road, Valjean drifted off to sleep under an azure sky. Before he was completely unfurled in sleep, his mind whirled around thoughts of a golden-haired child and a grey ruffed dog that chased her.

* * *

In the April of 1824, Paris had wrangled itself a warm spell that its citizens quite enjoyed. Coats were aired and stored in cedar chests, and fresh laundry draped over railings, ropes and posts throughout the bustling city. Winter had been banished once again. Earthy sustenance and hot beverages gave way to cooler and fresher fare. However, this did not curb the Parisians' penchant for coffee.

It is the elixir of the working class, that intoxicating brew which could coax alertness in the most wary of labourers and students alike. Yet it came in enough varieties and variations to please even the pickiest of connoisseurs. Every café in Paris laid claim to this drink, and because of this, one would often find themselves in the midst of the longest running pursuits in Paris: the search for the perfect cup of coffee.

And this was a hunt that Inspector Javert of the Paris police force relished every single morning.

On this particular day, the coffee had been good. Javert, in breaking up a youth's fight in one of Paris' smaller walkways, had to detour to get to work on time. Because of this, he took his habitual morning coffee in an extremely tiny and non-descript café. If the smudged chalk signboard had not been out front declaring its intentions, Javert could have sworn he had taken his coffee in a strange old lady's home.

Finally arriving at the façade of his police station, he mounted the stairs and nodded to the few men that had gathered on the steps.

They tittered.

Frowning, Javert shot them a glance. The men turned away from his scowling countenance, but they could not stifle the baubles of amusement that fell from their lips. Javert immediately quitted the area.

When he strode into the vestibule, he stopped. It was as if he walked into a giant womb, the air of expectancy and excitement pulsating throughout the entire building. Sergeants and officers fresh off their beat coagulated throughout the receiving floor, passing well-thumbed newsprint between them. Laughter and exclamations of disbelief mixed together to create a noisome buzz.

Javert tugged a bit at his leather cravat before proceeding onto the station floor.

The effect was instantaneous. As soon as his tall figure emerged in the main hall, voices banked to furtive whispers. But when he passed them on the way to his office in the back, they couldn't contain themselves. He caught dregs of their conversation:

"Yes, yes, the very same!"

"You mean...!"

"No!"

"From Montreuil-sur-Mer!"

At this last comment, Javert froze and turned sharply around. He began to advance upon the first group he clapped his eyes on, cudgel fisted in his hand. These unfortunate souls immediately darted back to their posts, leaving Javert bereft of information. And a Javert bereft of desired information is a very dangerous man indeed.

He stomped back to his office and slammed the door with such force, that it bounced off the jamb. He tossed his overcoat on the single chair in the corner and worked his collar. His free hand began to rifle through the multitude of paperwork that he had left the night before regarding the Coypel kidnappings. He managed to allow some cooler air to kiss his throat before his door yawned open behind him.

Suddenly he was besieged by the record-keeper: an extremely short spectacled lad whose face was as dotted as his fingers were stained. His thin hands twined around rolled newsprint. Javert advanced upon him, but was driven back as the eager man began bombarding him with breathless natter.

"Oh! Inspector, I'm so sorry! I hope that you don't leave! You won't, right?" His eyes bugged behind the thin frames.

"Please don't let those asses out there drive you out! We'd be at a loss without you!" The thin hands began twisting around the print, and Javert winced. His broad fingers squeezed open and shut as the youth kept chattering.

"I mean, how could this happen?" He began pummelling the paper against his left hand. "You said he was dangerous, and he was, of course!"

Then he slumped as if his winding mechanism finally gave out. "But, you can't argue with the King and all, but really-?"

Immediately Javert bent and clamped his large hands around each of the boy's shoulders.

"Please inform me of whatever is going on that seemingly involves my person, or so help me, someone's going to be unhappy"- he removed his lips far enough to expose a canine-"and it sure as hell isn't just going to be me."

Unperturbed, the man just looked at Javert's face with bewilderment.

"You didn't read today's paper?"

Javert released him and crossed his arms.

"René, you know that I don't read, especially dirty rags such as the _Moniteur_."

"Well, you might have wanted to read this one," cheerfully replied René.

"How the hell-nevermind," Javert ran tanned fingers through his grey mane. "So what's going on that involves the town of Montreuil-sur-Mer?" He leant on his desk, and braced himself without disturbing any of the paperwork that curled over the edge.

"Well...you see..." René hemmed, playing with his overgrown fingers. He looked everywhere but at Javert.

The Inspector began drumming the desk.

"Prisoner 9430 has been set at liberty!" cried the boy, wrapping himself around the paper once more.

The drumming ceased as Javert began to lean forward with such slight increments that one might have said he was a serpent, quietly uncoiling himself as he tasted prey.

Javert hissed. "This is the same prisoner that paraded himself as a paragon of society, the one that pretended to be someone he's not, just to worm his way into the hearts of his subordinates?"

René vehemently nodded.

"And they released him?" Voice soft, he snapped his fingers. "Just like that?"

"They had to; a Royal pardon from the King himself. It says he rescued a man from certain death-"

Javert sprung from the desk, and bolted through the door. René sighed and leant down to pick up the papers that had fluttered off of Javert's desktop. He put them in the chair and left.

Meanwhile, Javert burst through the two double doors and ran to his Commissaire's office, paying no heed to the men twittering as he flew past. His fellow colleagues were used to Javert-on-the-Chase. One or two outright laughed this time, as they actually knew the reason for his agitation.

How could one not laugh? The indomitable inspector, who owed his recent promotion to the capture of this specific convict, was now faced with the very same man waltzing around France!

Javert made it to the Commissaire's office and straightened before giving the wood a sharp rap with his knuckles. A placard labelled the door as belonging to Commissaire Marcel Lautrec.

"Come in," came the reply.

Javert pushed open the door and quickly shut it behind him with a click. Leaning back in his chair, the Commissaire regarded Javert with one inquiring brow.

"You're here about the prisoner," stated the man, steepling his stubby fingers.

Javert pushed his hair behind his ear. Seeing this, the Commissaire gestured to one of the two interrogation chairs that flanked his orderly desk. Javert instantly folded his long limbs into the embrace of its thin arms.

"I take it you read this morning's paper."

Javert glared. "You know better to ask that." His superior just shrugged his shoulders. "I learned it from your subordinates' endless need to comment and speculate on their fellow colleagues."

"Ah."

A pause.

"Did you know of this beforehand?"

The Commissaire rested his chin upon his folded hands. Inversely, Javert's grappled with the wood of his chair.

"Why didn't you inform me? I led the chase for this very man; he was my capture!"

Commissaire Lautrec's eyes narrowed. "Are you worried about your position here?"

"I don't care a flying fuck about my position, because I know this won't have an effect on it. I want to know the details of why this dangerous man, who I spent years observing and days tracking down, has been set loose upon society."

Lautrec sighed and brushed a limp curl off his forehead.

"The entire story is very simple: you know of the King's regard for this character already"—Javert's face soured—"so that played a part. This man, Jean Valjean, at great risk to his own life had saved a sailor from death while attending to his duties.

"Apparently it was quite perilous; this fellow had to climb down a rope from the top-mast to save this dangling sailor..." He fished for some paperwork between the hordes on his desk.

"Huh. Apparently I was on top of things this week, because it seems I have sent the missive off already..." Javert fell against the hard wood and exhaled a long breath with the sophistication of a practiced smoker.

"How come I have this niggling feeling that you did not want me to know of this?" muttered Javert, peering at the Commissaire as he continued to rummage through his papers and folios.

"To be honest, I didn't," he affirmed. "As I understand, there's something between you and this man"—Javert closed his eyes—" and there isn't really anything you or I can do about this situation. He has been exonerated of all charges."

The rustling of paper continued as both men sat in silence.

Javert started to pry himself loose from the chair, but Commissaire Lautrec halted his escape with his hand.

"I know he had stipulations made." Javert plopped back into the set, attention arrested. "That's why I needed the paperwork; I don't have the exact sentencing ingrained in my skull like some colleagues of mine."

"Stipulations?" Javert wetted his lips. "So he's being tested?"

"Basically," said the Commissaire , throwing his hands in defeat. He began straightening the piles, back to their pristine crispness.

"After all, like you and the courts pointed out in the evidences, he is a very dangerous man."


	4. 4-The Lost and the Found

Valjean had finally arrived in Paris as the sun lolled upon the skyline. Paris! that pulsating centre which sang to all travellers flowing through her veins and laid claim to all who passed within her borders. Carriages, loners, families, and fellow stragglers all sought to lose and find themselves within the maelstrom of this grand city. Forged within this crucible, tempered by the river Seine and moulded by infinite encounters with their fellow Parisians, one could emerge a transfigured man.

Which is apparently what France wanted for Jean Valjean, yet again.

Once he got his papers signed and stamped with the final officer's approval outside the southern gates of Paris, Valjean saw that he had exactly three days before he had to check in with his permanent parole officer. He immediately set to work.

First, he went to procure lodgings for himself and Cosette. Due to his limited coin and overwhelming need to hide, he dispensed with the open air and potted windows of the more prominent neighbourhoods. He wove his way through the tangled streets, light grey paving stones steadily sliming over with muck as he dug deeper into the cancer of Paris' underbelly. Finally, he came upon the Gorbeau dwelling.

This tenement housing, decorated with dying elms and shambles of decayed lives, was the grandest of this specific street. Other choices in this festering sore included unattractive hovels and heaps of warming rubbish, all laid out in a buffet of uniform symmetry. Each house offered identical odds as the next. Every wall, artifice, and façade marched to the exact same dismal tune with the one shouldering it. However, like a demented jack-in-the-box, one could not be entirely sure of the contents of the individual buildings themselves.

Despite his stomach wilfully punching itself from within, Valjean inquired about the possibility of a vacancy. He made the mistake of mentioning a daughter. So upon receiving the key covered with an oily patina, he found himself with a mere 40 sous lodging in his inside pocket.

At least he was wise enough to ask about furnishings.

* * *

That same day, Valjean set out for the village of Montfermeil. He left right after his midday repast, even though it would take about five hours to complete the journey by foot. He needed to arrive under the cover of darkness to complete his last task before appropriating Cosette.

He arrived on the outskirts of town with the stars twinkling above and glowing windows leading the way. Striding through town, he avoided the square puddles of light bordering the walkway. He kept his eyes planted forward.

A group of men wobbled out of an inn and nearly collided with Valjean, who sprung backwards. He covered his face with his handkerchief as the stench of alcohol stung his eyes and assaulted his nose.

One of them called out, "Hey, new guy! Join us for a brew?" Coughs and rough gurgles indicated the approval of the flock.

Shaking his head, Valjean sidestepped the advancing party and tethered horses whickered as he came too close.

He immediately kicked up his pace and quitted the main street, avoiding any and all forms of life until he arrived at the front of a small two-story house. The window was dim, but a fleeting orange glow permeated the recesses of the dwelling, signalling to Valjean that the inhabitants had removed themselves to the back.

Checking once more the numbers nailed to the peeling doorjamb, he gave the door three sharp knocks with the backside of his hand.

He waited exactly three minutes before he repeated the procedure. As soon as his hand connected with the door for the third time, there was a sharp click, and it swung open to reveal a stooping man. The light crept atop his balding pate as he craned his scrawny neck to peer at Valjean.

"Say," he drawled, "yer the chap that stopped by last year. Can't forget anyone with a body like that!" He cackled.

Valjean doffed his wide brim hat and held it in both hands.

"The very same," Valjean affirmed. "Is there room for an extra lodger at this late an hour, Monsieur Claude?" At the mention of his name, the man cackled again.

"For a repeat offender such as yerself," grinned Claude, "ten sous."

"'Preciate it," muttered Valjean as he dug into his coat and fished the necessary amount out of his purse. He slapped it into the man's cavernous hand. The coins vanished.

"This way," he said, inviting Valjean in. He passed over the threshold, and the door clicked and locked behind him. The old man scuttled past and Valjean followed. They entered an empty kitchen much to Valjean's relief; he did not want converse with anyone else.

A small supper in various stages of consumption remained on the rough-hewn table and Valjean was invited to partake. Empty plates were stacked against the wall upon the table. Scrounging about the wood for leftovers, Valjean filled his plate with a half-eaten slice of bread and bits of cheese and poultry. A tin cup was thrust at him, filled with water. Valjean gave the man small thanks, received nothing in return, and drank thirstily from the cup.

"The water bucket's in the corner there," indicated Claude, picking at some stray hairs upon his face. "You will sleep in the room to the left of the window." And with that, he left. The creak of the stairs resounded over Valjean's head as he began to eat. He replenished his strength quickly, and soon joined the rest of the household in sleep.

* * *

Valjean awoke before dawn. Removing his knapsack from under his head where it had served as an acceptable pillow, he cautiously scooted to the edge of the thin mattress. The floor was strewn with them and on top of each rested a variety of male travellers. Careful not to wake his coarse faced companions, he picked past the sprawled bodies, avoiding all flung limbs and piles of linens.

Close to the exit, he toed some soiled clothing out of his way and froze as metal tasted his skin. He glanced down; a jackknife was smooching his foot. He swiftly flicked the weapon off and stepped over the last slumbering figure.

Once he made it to the door, he eased it open by increments and returned the gesture upon closing. He took the creaking stairs one at a time, clinging to the wall; stairs squeak if you step on their bellies. Slowly tiptoeing his way to the main door, he tapped the latch free and slowly opened the door. Crisp air played upon his skin, drying his perspiration. Before he entered the new day, he plopped a couple of sous upon the adjoining windowsill and left.

The sky had yet to be cleaned of its inky blackness, though the stars had been removed for another night. It didn't bother Valjean though; he knew where he was headed. He strolled to the edge of town and checked around.

Empty.

He then took to the woods slowly, as not to tramp his way with the grace of a lumbering giant, but quick enough to beat the dawn.

Swallows twittered overhead as they welcomed Valjean back to their residence. A crow cawed thrice and mice scurried through the dry leaves. He traversed the overgrown roots, dense shrubbery, and hidden fox holes with the patience of an outdoorsman.

Soon, he reached glade with the heap of round white stones and the chestnut tree with the zinc band. Removing his small spade, he then tossed his knapsack upon the ground. Plunging the tool into the earth, it crunched through years of decayed leaves and moss. He sliced a gigantic hunk of sod right out of the ground and ripped it out, making sure it remained intact. Setting it aside, he resumed digging. Roots tugged at the spade as he extradited the soil from its procession, and he responded with a few well-aimed whacks.

After a few minutes of uninterrupted digging and clawing, Valjean unearthed his prize. Nestled within the shelter of the massive root system was the little trunk that he had placed there a year before. He gripped the trunk and pried it loose. Dirt washed over his fingers as he wriggled it free.

Brushing off the top, he began to open the case. However, he instantly stopped and stood still. Trees whispered amongst themselves. A river gurgled. Somewhere to his left, he heard it again.

A small, consistent rustle.

He remained stock still, hugging the container. He continued to listen. The rustling was too consistent, too tinny to belong to his race.

He expelled a breath and placed the trunk once more upon the ground.

When he lifted the lid, he was greeted by the twinkling of antique silver as dawn's first light trickled from the branches. He gently removed the twin candlesticks, made beautiful by their simplicity, and set them upon his knapsack. A letter and a jingling bag were next and he instantly shoved them into one of his pockets.

Then he began ploughing through the stacks of money, shoving them this way and that. His movements became more frantic when all he encountered was more and more bills. He began tossing them upon the ground in his efforts to reach the bottom. He completely emptied the case before falling upon his heels.

It was gone.

The small circlet of silver was nowhere to be seen.

He racked his brain to a year past, to that day when he hastily packed the trunk while the police regained his trail. The ring had become loose upon his finger when he became embroiled in the Champmathieu affair and he had removed it. After that, he couldn't remember. But the obvious conclusion was that it was no longer in his procession.

Shaking, he pounded the clumps of money back into the trunk, bruising the crisp bills. He almost closed the lid before he took a wad of bank notes and shoved it into his coat pocket. He began to rebury the trunk.

Besides the candlesticks, that ring was his only reminder of the kindness that the Bishop had bestowed upon him years before. When the Bishop of Digne had died three years ago, he had dressed in black and crape to honour the man who had galvanized his life for the better. But what the nosy people of Montrieul-sur-Mer did not know was that he had a ring specifically made to remember him by. Made from the last piece of silver he had left, he had a silversmith craft the simple ring to fit his middle finger. After that, he wore it in private and fiddled with it inside his pocket while out in public.

The warm silver had always provided reassurance.

And now through his own carelessness and stupidity, it was gone for good.

He plugged the hole with the intact clump of sod, swept the loose dirt in place, sprinkled leaves on top, and left. Patting his hands and swiping them on his pants, he stomped his way back to Montfermeil.

When Valjean remerged at the small village, it was bustling, though it was incredibly early. Shop windows were being wiped, produce were placed in bins outside, and everywhere windows and doors were let open to breathe. Within a couple of doorways dust spewed out, sometimes accompanied by the peek of a broom.

Valjean began his search for Fantine's child by observing the inns and their inhabitants as he slowly walked past. Luckily for him, Montfermeil was a small village, so the odds were in his favour. More so in fact, as the harsh expulsion of the child's name suddenly barraged his ears.

"Cosette!"

He walked briskly towards the middle of the street, and arrived in time to see a small bony child leap out the doorway of the _Sergeant of Waterloo_ inn, large hay broom in her hands. Even before her tiny feet alit upon the earth, the broom swept to and fro, kicking up dust.

Valjean halted a few yards away, aghast. His lips consumed each other as he took in that little waif sweeping the street with a trained air. His hand, hidden within this thin coat pocket, squeezed Fantine's letter.

Every once in a while she would stop and stare into the shop window across the street. A magnificent pink confection of a doll nestled there amongst the unlit candles and ribbons. His throat constricted.

He slowly walked up to the little girl. She instantly took notice of him even as her eyes were screwed to the ground.

"Good morning, Monsieur," she greeted. Her voice grated at Valjean's heart.

"Good morning," replied Valjean as he bent down to observe her more closely.

Terrifyingly, the child resembled her mother. Dirt clung to her with the tenacity of an overprotective guardian and her ill-fitting rags would have been considered scandalous if she was twice her age. She squeaked when her bare feet crunched a snail; her top front teeth were missing. Her sunken eyes lit up as she fought to rid herself of the deceased creature. Valjean was relieved to note that the dark colour of her long hair was attributed to it being her natural colour.

However, he also noticed the swelling and bruises when she bent to peel the snail's remains off her foot. Valjean marched right up to the chop-house, and began searching for her keepers, the Thenardiers.

He didn't have to look at all for the Thenardiess; her very presence shoved itself into his line of vision. Her critical eye at once took in this threadbare yellow coat and his round, bent hat and she scoffed. She returned to wiping down the tables, with both hands and bosom.

"We are full for today, good man. May Day is a very busy time of year."

"I am just passing through."

"Well then, on your way."

"I'm here for information," stated Valjean with that presence he practiced as Mayor. The Thenardiess threw him a questioning glance through her mess of red hair.

"Yes?"

"The child?" He gestured to the reaching figure of Cosette outside the window. She had scuttled under the eaves and began to fish for cobwebs. "She is not yours?"

"What's it to you?"

A tingling jumble emitted from the confines of Valjean's pocket. He kept his face impassive even as hers quickly rearranged itself in a frightening array of obscene begging and monstrous pleasure.

"That thing? Oh no, she's a cast-off that we had the goodness to take in. However, you can see that we are not well off, Monsieur"—Valjean flinched—"and because of that we can hardly feed her. Why, that little bag of bones eats us raw!" wailed the Thenardiess, as she sidled closer to Valjean. He inched closer to the doorway.

"Say then," suggested Valjean, "what if you were relieved of her?"

"What do you mean?"

"I will pay to take the child off your hands." His tongue had to wrangle the sour taste off itself.

"Oh my good sir! Please, take the little slut! She's yours! Take her, beat her, stuff her, eat her! I care not!" she shrilled, clapping her meaty paws in glee.

Valjean took another step a back to relieve the ringing in his ears. He had to exercise the very fibres of his being not to allow his aversion to etch itself upon his face. His insides writhed with the effort.

However, the other player entered upon the scene, wringing his vulture's hands as he made contact with this 'woman'.

"Dear, our little ones are waiting to break their fast," he said in a sugar-sweet nasally tone. "Make sure you don't forget to set a place for our hardest little worker!"

At this, the Thenardiess gaped upon her husband's smiling face with a thoroughly befuddled look. But not receiving any further guidance, she shrugged her huge shoulders and left.

Upon seeing this innkeeper cast a look that rifled through his pockets and patted down his person, Valjean emitted grunt of dislike. The thin man broke into a leer that ate his entire face. He clasped his hands together.

"A very good morning to you Monsieur," whistled the man through the gaps in his teeth. "I am Thenardier, the master of this establishment. How may I help you today?"

Cosette's broom thumped the window where it fell from her chapped hands. Thenardier's eye twitched.

Ah. Valjean knew his kind as soon as he clapped eyes upon the worn sergeant's coat and the peasant's attire. He loosened his stance and slumped forward a bit, hands still in his pockets. As expected, the man relaxed.

"I am looking to take the girl off your hands," replied Valjean. Thenardier sighed.

"Well, my good sir, I simply cannot do that," he shrugged, and tossed a small smile to the window where Cosette was beating the shutters.

"You see, I love that child so much." He placed his bony hands upon the spot where his heart should be.

"It would break my heart to see her go."

Valjean instantly turned his head to gaze out the window and he exhaled into his coat. He didn't trust himself to watch Thenardier anymore.

"How much?" he inquired.

"Sir, I cannot—"

Valjean swung around. "Your wife mentioned hard times. How much to settle the little one's debts?"

Thenardier licked his thin mouth. Then he chewed it as his beady eyes swept Valjean from crown to the soles of his shoes. When his eyes caught his, Valjean furrowed his brow and ghosted a smirk across his lips. He straightened his stance and in doing so blocked the entire doorway.

"Fifteen hundred francs."

Valjean raised a bushy brow.

"The child was sick Monsieur, you see," he swallowed. "And of course, it was such a harsh winter…"

Valjean removed his hand from his pocket, three crumpled bills fisted in it. He grimaced when he saw how Thenardier instantly crept closer, his whole gaze fixated upon the banknotes. He shoved his hand back inside. Thenardier eyed him closely, as he wiped his hands upon his woollen trousers.

Valjean looked him straight on and stated, "I will take the child, and you will not see her again. You will not follow us; you will not know where we will stay."

He removed the slips of paper once more.

"Are we clear?"

"Completely."

"Call the girl."

Thenardier frowned, and yelled for her. She appeared behind Valjean, who immediately moved aside. She did not step over the threshold.

"Yes, sir?" She rolled the broom handle between her hands and a few strands of cobwebs clung to her matted hair.

"You're going with this man now, so wash up and pack your things," barked Thenardier.

Cosette looked upon the scrunched face of Thenardier, who looked as if he had a bad itch, then to Valjean. He smiled gently. Since he was facing her, Thenardier did not witness this exchange. The broom fell from her lifeless fingers.

"Wha-what?"She looked back at her keeper. "Is this true?"

"Yes! Now hurry along!" he wheezed.

She looked once more at Valjean and he gave her a kind nod. He replaced the bills in his pocket to free his hand, shouldered the rucksack off, and bowed down to the child's level. She folded her arms together and shielded her quivering frame. He never took his eyes off her face as he reached in and pulled out a fine black dress, a pair of matching shoes and stockings, and a large bonnet. As if synchronized, both her and Thenardier's mouth fell open with every new article magicked out of that coarse sack.

He gently took the child's two clasped hands with one of his own, and pried them loose with one of his thick fingers. Once open, he used his other to place the gifts into her awaiting hands.

"Go, my child," whispered Valjean.

Immediately, she scampered into the recesses of the inn. Exclamations of wonder and envy erupted from the back. Valjean stood and leaned against the doorjamb, arms crossed. He checked on Thenardier through his lowered lids and noted the man remained where he left him, trembling slightly like a man bereft of his tobacco.

Valjean removed himself and ordered, "I'm going pick up some provisions and hire a coach; I'll be back."

Thenardier's mouth snapped open in protest but Valjean interrupted, "You will receive payment upon my return _and_ when I obtain my end of the bargain."

He turned and exited the building, crossing the street. The innkeeper's grasping eyes bore upon his back as he entered the shop with the doll. Refusing change, he left the store with the large figure tucked under his brawny arm and walked to the end of the lane. There he procured the best conveyance he could.

Upon his return, he was greeted by Cosette and the entire Thenardier clan. They apparently wanted to ensure that he kept his word.

Cosette was outfitted in all black for mourning, but her deplorable condition made it seem as if she was lamenting herself as well. It was a stifling contrast to the other two girls, who though messy and still in their nightclothes, were healthy and pink.

He kneeled.

"Come, Cosette," he called and she emerged from the mass.

As she inched closer, he pulled the doll from underneath his arm and presented it to her. She halted and to Valjean's dismay, began stepping backwards. The Thenardiers were slack-jawed, and the other girls, eyes aglow, began to tug at their mother's skirt.

"Here," he coaxed, "this is for you."

Her footsteps halted, and she clasped her hands so tight, they turned white.

"That pretty lady cannot be for me, Monsieur," she murmured.

Valjean released a strangled chuckle.

"Well, she isn't for me, and—"he gave the 'lady' a glance—"I wouldn't want her to be lonely. Would you like to be her friend?"

And with that, Cosette flew to the doll and hugged it with all her might, pink muslin kissing black. Valjean's hands, now empty, fluttered in the air around the embracing pair.

"Her name's Catherine!" she exclaimed, wonder radiating off her frame. She wiggled with excitement.

Meanwhile, Thenardier broke free from the pack and scurried to them. Valjean stood up, and without a word removed the dirty money from his pocket and deposited in his outstretched hand. As soon as the paper touched his skin, his fingers snapped shut. He immediately brought the trapped bills to his damp face and began examining them.

Revolted, Valjean held out his large hand to Cosette, who accepted it without question. Hand-in-hand, they evacuated the premises.


	5. 5-Worthy of Note

Javert settled into the crackling upholstery of the hired coach. As usual, the stale scent of tobacco and human effluence puffed out, lending itself to the sparkling dust motes.

It was only a morning's commute to the small north- eastern village of Montfermeil. However, he wished he had chosen a better day to travel; celebrations in small villages near Paris were horrible.

However, once René had revealed to him that Jean Valjean had checked in with one of the officers stationed on the feeder routes outside of Paris, he sprang into action. He knew Valjean would inquire about the whore's 'child' first, if she even existed. Especially when one considered that he did not check in with his parole officer immediately.

He leant against the right side and looked out the window as the wagon jostled him along, like a child upon her father's shoulders. Row houses, cafes, and shops soon retreated against the advancing fields and farmsteads. Interspersed at random intervals, blossoming trees lent a sticky sweetness to the air. Cattle swung bells, farmhands beat the soil, and small children hummed against the melodic sway of grass.

Javert could not explain why he was spending his entire free morning on what was most likely a fool's errand. Valjean, having checked in at the gates of Paris with all necessary signatures and on schedule, would most likely still check in with the Prefecture within the next three days. He would not go through all that trouble just to discard it.

But something tore into the deepest recesses of his chest and was vigorously wrenching him towards this tiny glimpse into Valjean's next direction. Logical reasoning could not contend with that most basic instinct, that undeniable gravitational pull between two bodies.

Rolling along, Javert was roused when a barking command punctured through his thoughts. His coach stopped as a large public carriage barged forward.

Dust stuck to the window as four snorting bays pulled past. One sneezed and he flinched. A deluge of snot spattered upon his pane.

Javert sneered and immediately removed himself to the other side of the conveyance. He threw one last glance at his ruined pane and caught the face of a small girl as she leaned out the window of the passing carriage.

Her long lanky hair fell upon her dirty profile like an overgrown dying weed. Her eyes were huge as she ogled the road before her. A woman's hand began tugging at her black dress.

Javert harrumphed. He crossed his arms and turned his attention once more to the French countryside instead of ugly little children in desperate need of a shave.

* * *

As predicted, the town was infested with screaming children ricocheting off each other, like a swarm of agitated bees. Delicate lilies of the valley were given away for good luck and taken in hopes of better fortune later that night. To avoid all that unpleasantness, Javert removed himself to the roadside, only to become ensnared in the contaminous gossip that spouted from the adults congealing in the doors and windows of the closed shops and open taverns.

"The lark?"

"Yes, just left today—"

"Apparently taken?"

Javert sucked in a breath.

"Some family issues, I warrant—"

"Those poor Thenardiers…"

"Not to mention—"

"—the mother, right?"

Despite the usefulness of the exchange, the sugar-laden mouths, fake mews of worry and hearty guffaws expelled Javert from listening for more. He strode over to the Thenardiers' inn and stopped in front of the streaky windows.

Immediately, a stringy man slunk out of the door, rubbing his hands together. Javert folded his arms, whiskers bristling as he took in the dirty sergeant's coat, the shifty interplay of limbs, and the beady orbs rolling around as they assessed him right back.

"Good morning."

"How may I help, Monsieur—"

"Inspector," cut in Javert. "I am looking for information regarding an elderly gentleman that might have passed through this district." Javert paused and Thenardier did not answer.

He resumed, "Also, I have heard some stories from your neighbours about your little girl…?" He drifted off and cocked a brow.

The man began to showily rub his chin. He picked at a scab, then a few scraggly hairs.

"Ah, so that's it!" He jabbed a bony finger in the air theatrically, as one would do if they alighted upon some momentous discovery.

"You're looking for our Cosette's grandfather, no relation of course. Whitest head of hair I ever seen! The girl wasn't ours though; we good Christian souls took her in despite our own meagre condition. He came by today and retrieved her. Poor little thing was all frail and sickly, so we had to let her go."

Throughout his speech, Thenardier's hands kept messing with something inside his gaudy vest, and Javert zeroed in on the imperceptible movements.

"Turn out your pockets."

"What?"

"I said, turn out your pockets, or if you continue to be this obtuse, I can turn out your entire person," considered Javert, tapping his cudgel with a finger.

"Your choice."

Slowly, the man began to empty his pocket, but when Javert's face darkened, he disembowelled both at once. Caught in one dirty hand was a wad of banknotes. The signature of Laffitte arrested him instantly.

"I can't believe it," he gasped into his collar, "he paid for the kid!"

Thenardier, upon hearing this uttered cry, whole countenance took on an air of boredom.

"Like I told you, her grandfather came by and picked her up," he said, casually fanning himself with the bills. "This is what was owed to me as the child's debt."

Thenardier sighed. "You see, the child's mother is dead…"

He glanced at the Inspector from hooded eyes. Javert waited.

"We sent letters to her in Montrieul-sur-Mer, but received no response. At first, I thought she simply abandoned her child," he shrugged.

"But no!" His thin brows punctuated his distaste. "The damned wretch had to go and die on us!"

"How?"

"Apparently warming the bed of some convict parading as Mayor, the little hussy—"he reclined against his den—"or so I've heard from the mail coach when it returned."

Slowly, an insidious smile crawled upon his hollow face and nested there.

"Nothing more."

Javert's hand grappled with the handle of his weapon; the rest of his stature remained motionless.

The wolf regarded the fox; and then with a grunt and a jerky nod Javert left, posture erect as he returned to his coach. Thenardier did not tear his eyes from the Inspector, not even when fresh prey ambled into the maw of his chop-house.

* * *

After a stopping for a revitalizing cup of pitch black coffee at his customary café, Javert ascended the stairs at the Place du Chatelet for a second time that day. However, unlike the lethargic officers that aimlessly wandered the floor in the morning, the whole building was awash in excitement, not unlike that of a month before.

Javert groaned as he quickly deciphered the multitude of conversations that flowed about him. As usual, Valjean had been one-step ahead of him the entire time.

"Have Monsieur Bonheur bring me the pardoned criminal's records immediately!" shouted Javert to the front-desk sergeant who popped off his stool. He nearly fell over when his oversized boots caught on a rung.

Javert merely continued to remove his gloves, until a familiar voice distracted him.

"How many times have I told you that I cannot stand that appellation?"

Javert turned towards René Bonheur, a sparrow disengaging himself from the crowd of chattering bluejays.

He was frowning.

"It's a serious matter," replied Javert.

"Yes it is," huffed René, folding his arms, careful not to crinkle his packet of fresh paper. "But so are you, when you renege on your promises."

Javert coughed and slapped the leather on his bare hands.

"Does that mean you have the paperwork?"

"I knew you would desire it as soon as your fellow checked in with Sergeant Baudot."

"Ah, so Baudot is the assigned parole officer?"

"Apparently so."

They left the front atrium and went down the lit corridor.

"I see you didn't inquire to whether Sergeant Grosz was all right after you nearly knocked him out."

Halting in front of his dingy office door, Javert plucked one of the three keys on his ring and plunged it in the lock.

"Due to the lack of hysterics and our pompous ass of a medic, I feel that I'd be wasting my time."

René chuckled and handed Javert the report as he entered the dim office. However, Javert did not follow.

"René," lilted Javert, "If you weren't still considered child by law, I'd strangle you."

René's short curls bounced as he whirled. Javert held up the cover page, which had some unaddressed areas and unanswered questions.

"Sir," he stated, eyes narrowing. "I haven't had time to bring that issue up myself; you demanded the report."

Javert looked at the record-keeper, who withstood his gaze. Javert nodded.

"Of course."

He plopped himself down in the mean little corner chair. His legs spilled out, stealing most of the empty space. René merely shuffled to the side and surveyed the mismatched bookcase as Javert began to analyse the cover sheet.

Fragmented grumbles issued forth from the Inspector.

"…didn't even do his job! Half the page done! _Half!"_

He smacked the packet.

"How the hell did Ary manage to bungle this one up? I mean, he obviously has the child now. There's no way that he could have missed her..." He tapped his cheek.

"Unless he didn't bring her...actually... knowing Valjean, that's probably what he did."

Javert flipped the top sheet aside in the vicinity of his desk. It swooped underneath.

"But there's no mention of any familial connections...he didn't ask then?"

More paper flipping, he fingered through the rest of the papers, this time managing to keep them all intact.

"Shit! Either Ary is slipping in this work, or the dunderhead didn't think to ask a former convict about whether or not he had a family."

Javert tore at his whiskers, spiking them. Catching himself, he patted his hair into place before casting a questioning look towards René, who had been perusing one of Javert's dusty books.

"Where's the top sheet?"

"Under the desk." René pointed as he replaced the tome.

"Ah." Gripping the edge of the desk, Javert stooped his tall frame, laid the papers on the ground and began swiping under the desk.

"We will need to inquire about Sergeant Baudot's report writing," he muttered to the mahogany. "While this sort of slovenly reporting might pass for actual policework in the provincial towns, we cannot have this mucking up our system."

Fingers pinched the errant sheet and snatching up its companions, he sprang off the floor. He leant against his desk as he began to scrutinize another page.

René rocked upon his heels as he waited for Javert to finish mouthing the words aloud to himself. So he nearly fell over when the Inspector dashed into his personal space.

"See here!"

Bewildered, René tried desperately to read the paper thrust into his face, but it kept shaking with the Inspector's excitement. It also didn't help the poor man that Javert's broad finger covered up most of the lines.

"This address is false; it doesn't exist!"

"What?' He pushed his glasses. "Even I know there are homes upon that street."

"Yes, and their addresses start at 11 and continue to 30, but," Javert grinned, "there is no number 13 at the Rue de Chalet."

René let out a gasp. "That's true, so that means—"

"Yes, our dear Monsieur Valjean is lying to the police," smirked Javert.

* * *

Night had crept in unnoticed. Quickly, Javert observed the open timepiece upon his desk; he had exactly fifteen minutes before he was required to patrol his beat. He placed all of his notes regarding irregularities within Valjean's parole papers into a pile and placed them atop the books on the tallest shelf.

However, the Inspector also wanted to reassess the Coypel case that afternoon as well. Removing a messy stack of mismatched parchment, yellowed paper work, and a precariously placed ceramic mug, he unearthed a slim folder. It was labelled with a smudged flowing scrawl and he pulled it off the table. A gnawed pencil fell out and he quickly gathered it up and took it between his teeth.

Opening the thin folder, he quickly reviewed his notes. Tightly wound handwriting nested among doodles in the margins. The Coypel kidnapping was an atypical case for the Paris Prefecture in that it involved the son of Handel Coypel, a prominent counterfeiter. Because of the situation, no one deigned to even hear out his case.

Javert was at once riveted when he learnt of the details, and volunteered to investigate himself. He was thumbing through small sheets of clustered notes when loud caterwauling smacked him out of his reverie.

Scowling, he shoved the notes into his cavernous coat pocket along with the pencil stub and a fresh handful of paper. He replaced the folder under the stack as before, seized his cudgel and walked to his door.

To his left and crowding the small corner, huddled three of his fellow sergeants. The front desk sergeant, Grosz, was clutching a small gold frame as they rapidly conversed among themselves.

Javert, blanketed by the shadows of his office, rested against the jamb.

A moustached man, dressed to the nines, rounded upon Grosz.

"Édouard, why the hell is she back? We spent all of last week chasing random strangers off her property, just to ease whatever nonsense she's housing upstairs!" he hissed agitatedly.

"Did her dog die again?" piped up the other man from underneath a crop of flaxen hair.

"No, apparently this time it's her kid." Grosz handed the frame over to him.

"Damn."

"Pass the picture, Paul," demanded the flashy sergeant.

More wailing infested the corridor and blond man handed it over.

"You know, with all that lace and cotton, the poor thing resembles one of Renoir's sweetmeats he's always receiving," commented Grosz.

"Ha, Renoir, this one's yours then!" Paul punched him in the shoulder. "Go and find that lady's bonbon!"

"Are you shitting me? I worked with her twice already; it's obviously your guys' turn."

"Ah, but you're forgetting the asinine purse hunt Édouard and I had to go on a month ago!"

Renoir flung his hands in the air.

"Let's just get the straws!"

"Oh, man, they're under Renoir's desk," whispered Grosz. "I don't want to confront her again!"

"Never mind those."

Javert towered over the bickering trio, smirking at their sudden discomfiture.

"I'll take her, but you have to do me each a favour."

They tossed a look amongst themselves. A chin jerk from Renior and a nod from Grosz sent all three turning to Javert in wary silence.

"I need you to investigate your quartiers regarding the whereabouts of the pardoned convict, Jean Valjean."

Sergeant Grosz began, "But I don't have—"

"You do now. You're taking mine," commanded Javert. He eyed the sullen faces for any sign of further interruptions. Satisfied, he resumed.

"His parole officer had been fed false information on his lodgings, so we need to find out where he really lives. It's highly suspicious that he pulled a stunt like this. So be on the look out for a man with an extremely muscular build; he has the strength of an oxen team. His hair is completely white, but he's still young, so don't let that fool you."

Renior straightened and replied testily, "Now, if we do see him or find out anything, do you want us to confront him?"

Javert levelled him a glare for a full second before responding.

"No. That duty is mine."

Renoir snorted. The other two men nervously hid their hands behind their backs.

Javert smiled, releasing his teeth.

"You see, we cannot endanger you by placing you in confrontations with old bread-thieves and little girls."

He thrust out his massive hand and allowed the sergeants to place the preliminary notes and the locket into his palm. Without even tossing another glance into their corner, he marched past the darkened offices.

Javert scanned the elementary report in his hands. The ramblings of both Sergeant Grosz and the victim were translated quickly as he made his way to the front desk.

When he appeared around the corner, the bejewelled lady who was merely blubbering into her pudgy hands immediately burst into renewed tears. Javert winced as he shielded himself behind the desk. He closed his eyes and inhaled a fortifying breath.

"My poor Michel!" she sobbed into her heavily perfumed handkerchief.

"Madame Vuillard, I will be the Inspector that will be documenting your case today," he announced, rising his voice. "As I understand, your son was taken from his bed in the middle of the night, unbeknownst to you, your husband, or your son's nurse."

Lip quivering, she gave a frenzied nod that sent the coiffure in to a fit atop her round head. Javert pinched the bridge of his nose, desperate to rid himself of the harsh smell of withered flowers.

He coughed. "Though I am aware the Sergeant before me took notes regarding your case, I would like to hear the details in your own words."

Like removing the stopper from an overfilled cask, Javert unleashed a torrential downpour upon the entire station. Sergeant de ville and officers were derailed from their courses and the spattering of civilian visitors stood gobsmacked at the onslaught.

"Ohh, Michel, didn't deserve any of that…such a sweet boy—I swear! Someone help me! I'll pay any amount—just taken without a sound! And they didn't take any money…how are they supposed to feed Michel? Why couldn't they have taken one of those horrid little gamins—"

With resounding force, Javert braced himself on the desk, snapping the lady out of her tirade.

"Madame! Please cease! I cannot help you if you insist on relying me information in this manner!"

Her eyes bulged and her nose sniffled as it tried to absorb the excess moisture that decorated her made-up face.

Javert brought up his hand up, palm out.

"I know it's difficult," he consoled, voice sharp, "but your cooperation is essential if you desire the safe return of your son!"

She nodded, flesh jiggling.

"If you may, can you restate what happened leading up to the disappearance of your son?"

Javert licked the tip of his eaten pencil and waited as the woman gathered herself.

"We-well," she stammered, "Nothing strange happened before this, except some letters I had received."

Javert's quirked an eyebrow.

"Letters?"

"Yes, some really strange letters. I mean, they didn't sound scary or anything—"

"Let me decide that, Madame," interjected Javert. He leaned in closer. "What did these letters say?"

"Uhh," hedged Madame Vuillard as she tried to evade the Inspector's piercing eyes. "It just reported things that my son had done. Playing outside with the dog, falling down, piano lessons; like those reports schoolmasters give to parents."

Javert straightened. Passing his tongue over his lips, he began muttering to his cravat. Bewildered, the lady began to play with the multitude of rings adorning her fingers.

She had moved onto her gold bracelets when Javert interrupted.

"Can you retrieve every single letter you had received of this nature and bring it to this prescient?"

He stepped out from behind the desk, notes in hand.

"When you come back, you must ensure the letters are delivered to Inspector Javert."

The spoken command roused the woman from her stupor, and smeared her in splotches of salmon. Her hands rolled into fists as she trudged up to the Inspector.

"Excuse me?" she exclaimed haughtily. "Why should I let you read personal things about my son?"

"Because," he responded toothily, "I do believe we have something of monstrous value here."

* * *

Commissaire Lautrec had taken two fortifying cigarettes that day instead of one due to the eternal exasperation of having his most difficult subordinate fused with his most prodigious one. Not only did Javert take on another project that no one would touch, but within an hour, he managed to unearth a lead. At the same time, his interest in the former convict Jean Valjean was beginning to interfere.

The day after Javert sent Sergeant Grosz on his beat, Lautrec called Javert to his office, to inquire as to why he felt the need to delegate tasks when he did not have the authority to do so. Instead of answering, Javert fanned an array of reports upon his pristine desk and began to lecture him about the discrepancies of Valjean's parole papers. When he couldn't verbally contribute anything, Javert merely continued, and moved onto the strange case of Madame Vuillard and the covert letters she received before the disappearance of her son. He also reviewed his condensed notes upon the Coypel kidnapping case, much like a tutor and his student before exams.

Before he excused Javert from the room, he asked a single question of the man, more out of curiosity, rather than for rebuke.

"If he checked in as he has been doing thus far, why couldn't you wait a week until he came back to confront him?"

At this, the confidence Javert had exuded was instantly banked, and he looked down at his buttons for a minute before answering:

"I am not sure."

Despite his greatest efforts, Javert had only obtained a small bit of information from one of the sergeant de villes that stated he saw a bulky sailor of a man, who sported a crop of pristine hair in the area of Saint- Marcel.

After a week of barely concealed agitation, Lautrec called Javert once again to his office.

"Did you bring your notes from last week?"

A curt nod.

"Good, because there is something of note here, and I want your opinion."

Javert instantly perched his tall frame upon the edge of the left chair.

"What was the previously recorded address?"

"Number 13, Rue de Chalet." Javert didn't even look at the papers in his hands.

"Ah, and here's the crux of the matter." The Commissaire passed the paper over where it was quickly snatched by eager fingers.

Ice blue eyes darted to and fro, scanning the page. His whole body tensed as he bore upon the address.

"It now says No_._50-52Boulevard de l'Hôpital."

"Exactly. The Gorbeau tenement, a place that does exist," stated Lautrec. "What do you think?"

"A filthy hole, perfect for someone that wants to hide but…"His attention reminded glued to the page as he played with the hair at his nape.

"But, why would he provide a false address before, and then turn around and give us another address? Very peculiar…and if this proves to be his true one, I don't know what to make of it. I mean—he was sighted in this area—but what of the girl? It still makes no mention…did he toss the goods?"

Lautrec waited until his mumblings trickled down into soft hums before he brought the man back into their conversation once more.

"So we are in agreement in our conclusions upon this."

Javert leaned back in the chair.

"I would like you to confront this man."

Slowly Javert removed himself, and sat at the edge of his seat again.

"What?"

Lautrec held out his hand for the paper, while the left opened a drawer and removed a slip of paper and pencil.

"Yes, we need to get to the bottom of this. An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure, and all that," he muttered, jotting the address.

"Plus, I confess that I am quite curious on what is going on upstairs. I trust your skills in obtaining his intentions and motive." He placed the note in the Inspector's palm.

He stood up and gave a small bow of his head.

"I am not sure I am capable of such feats with this particular man," said Javert softly as he left.

* * *

The stars blinked down upon Javert as he sought them above. They did not lend their pinpoints of light upon this mockery of a residence. Even in the languishing gloom, Javert could make out the ugly façade with its cracked windows and crumbling eaves.

A rat scurried from his boot as it caught a bit of trailing garbage.

He knocked at the door and was confronted by the wife of Charon. With folds of skin washing over her non-descript eyes, twisting veins, and her cavernous mouth, fitted with two rattling teeth, Javert instantly plunged his exposed hands into his coat pocket.

"Excuse me," he greeted, removing the slip of paper, but keeping it close to his person. "I am here to visit a friend, who gave me this address to see him by."

The crone didn't even look at the paper.

"Ah, you're here for Monsieur, no doubt," she cackled.

Javert took a small step back, as the lady hopped down from the threshold.

"Ah, yes, Monsieur is my only tenant at this time," she continued, gesturing for him to enter. "He's alone in this place."

Javert levelled a questioning glare, but she merely opened her grinning mouth wider, causing Javert to remove is gaze elsewhere. She directed him upstairs and left him alone in the narrow confines of the musty hallway. She had placed a small wood candlestick upon the warped flooring when Javert made no move to take it.

He took out his cudgel from the inside of his coat, and raised a fist. However, within an inch of puncturing the decrepit wood, he stopped. His enormous hands hung as his sides; the cudgel swayed limply from his fingers. The candlestick, abandoned upon the ground, spit bits of light upon the rusting door handle.

Turning his back, he hunched in on himself, and reread the address. His thumb rubbed upon the faint text: _No._ _50-52 Boulevard de l'Hôpital_. Then he pocketed it, along with his weapon.

He wiped his hands upon his coat briskly. Steeling both fists, he released a ragged breath and sharply rapped the door.


	6. 6- Know Your Quarry

**To everyone that has reviewed, followed, and read this story: I want to thank you for making this far into the story. It must've have tried your patience in having to read five straight chapters without the main characters ever even meeting each other! So your tenacity has been rewarded, and I hope you enjoy this chapter!**

* * *

Three sharp knocks infiltrated the haze that had infested Valjean's brain.

The Inspector was at his door. Suddenly the wood bit his hand and he jerked back, seeking the splinter embedded in his palm.

_Inspector Javert had come for him._ Pain plastered his hand as his fingers jarred the small fragment loose. He ripped it out in one jerky motion.

Strangely enough, he wondered why Javert even bothered. He was just a man, one of many that Javert would process and forget. This man's fervour was too much. And that it should be directed at him? Valjean no longer knew what to think.

He ripped himself from the key hole and stumbled into the lone wooden chair that instantly tore at his shirt, seeking his salted flesh. Cosette was still asleep, swaddled in the blankets, oblivious as the darkness crouched upon her; watching, expectant.

Valjean knew he was not an innocent man. He came to this realization while under the Toulon millstone. The infinite stinging lashes of the merciless Mediterranean sun and the sharp incessant massage of rats and stone upon his beaten flesh, day after day, threatened to grind him as it did countless others. Instead, he grasped upon that one glimmer of hope left to a man in such conditions; the knowledge that the millstone does not grind itself. Swallowed in the comforting miasma of hatred for that unknown entity that kept him at heel, that forced him to beg, that moulded his flesh to fit its desires and wrung his talents from every fibre through menial labour, he malformed. As repayment for his services, he was released upon humanity, unfettered and ready for retribution, like a prize-fighting dog awaiting his next victim.

The palms that lay upon his trousers, open faced, slowly curled upon themselves as he remembered _that man._

That horrible man that preyed upon his dreams, soured his memories, and sabotaged his future.

The one that had the audacity to rob the most innocent of people.

The one that played upon the feelings of others.

His head bent.

He had lost the capability to cry years ago.

While he sat upon that precipice, that decision of answering the summons from beyond that wooden veil, a creak stole him from his thoughts.

Valjean wrenched his head towards the small noise and instantly beheld the astonished visage of Javert, hand still hovering in the air where it once held a doorknob. His wide eyes sputtered with the light from a weeping candle as he gaped at the empty space, mouth slightly open.

Valjean did not have the time to marvel at the Inspector's strange expression; the moment those basilisk eyes met his own, Valjean was riveted on the spot. Soft gasps chorded against the ties of harsh breathing that filled the dark chamber.

Abruptly, Javert crossed the boundary into Valjean's territory.

"You," Javert hissed. "You didn't think to lock the door?"

He took another small step forward. His tall figure was instantly consumed by the night.

"I wasn't asleep yet."

"That is no excuse! Crime waits for no man. You know this. Why, haven't you noticed that you brought yourself and this child into one of the most disreputable districts in all of Paris?"

Valjean became fixated upon Javert.

"How did you know about Cosette?"

A hush fell. Javert's outline wavered in the dim light. His hands fumbled in the shelter of their prospective pockets.

"Is that what you really want to ask?"

This question was delivered with such an acerbic tonal quality, that Valjean's ready affirmation shrivelled and decayed upon his tongue.

He swallowed; the bitter tang scoured his throat.

"I am not sure."

"Then answer me this: what are your intentions for this child?"

Valjean replied, "She has no family; neither do I. I am a free man, and I would like to take her in."

"Then why did you bring her here? I know for a fact that we did not retrieve all of your factory profits; we made sure to keep records of that. So you could have rented better lodgings. As usual, you take the criminal way out."

A surge of slicing resentment propelled him out of his chair, and he advanced upon Javert, who despite staying his ground, trembled slightly. The minuscule movements were slight, but Valjean sensed the vibrations. He threatened to traverse that gap between them, but the closer he got, the more the shadows intensified upon Javert, like agitated vipers twisting themselves around a statue.

"I had no money," said Valjean, annunciating every word. "I did the best I could."

"Then why did you lie?"

Valjean took a step back, and cocked his head to the side, frowning. Javert noticed his confusion as the man proceeded to reiterate himself.

"About the girl."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, come on Valjean! I'm not stupid. Why did you never mention the child when you checked in with your parole officer?"

"He never asked," stated Valjean simply. "So I figured it was not required by the State to know."

Javert hunched over like a tree piled with a burden of snow. After pinching the bridge of his nose and muttering a few obscenities into his cravat, he shook himself. Standing straight once more, he surveyed the room, taking in the girl upon the mattress, the greasy window, and the nails protruding from the aged wood.

"We need to get you out of here."

Whatever Valjean was expecting, it sure wasn't that. He tried to analyse those simple words, like a jeweller does with beads, but they merely jumbled and became entangled so it no longer resembled a relevant declaration. He sought to clear up his confusion.

"What's the hurry?"

"Do you honestly wish her to live here?"

"No, but where can we go this late in the evening?"

"I know of a place that accepts people at all hours, since it caters to overseas travellers. You know how that works; every hour of the day is fair game to the wandering."

Valjean looked up at the Inspector, but his face remained utterly blank and fixed at some point beyond his shoulder.

"I shall rouse Cosette, then. Will you wait outside the door?"

"As always," murmured the Inspector. He left, and shut the barrier between them, encapsuling the pair in darkness once again.

As soon as the door clicked shut, he gently pressed Cosette's shoulder and rolled her back and forth, until she blinked awake. A tremendous yawn adorned her round face and she rubbed her eyes.

"Yes, papa?"

"We are leaving, so I want you to go and get dressed."

Cosette just stared at him through hooded eyes. Valjean tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear, and her eyes floated shut.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes, papa, just sleepy. Do we have to go?"

"Yes, we are going to find a new place to live."

"Hmm-mm," agreed the small child as she scooted to the edge of the mattress, blanket wrapped about her so she resembled a tiny babushka.

He kneeled down and said quietly, "Go and get ready, Cosette. Do that for me, and I promise I will carry you the entire way."

"Thank you, papa."

Bits of paperwork, coins, and his handkerchief found their way quickly into Valjean's yellow coat as he shovelled himself inside. He snatched up his abandoned rucksack and placed Catherine within, once he received prior approval from the shuffling form of Cosette. Her bedclothes were placed on top as well as Valjean's spare shirt and undergarments. Giving a once over to the gloom, his tossed the bag over his shoulder, knelt down and opened his arms. Cosette wobbled over and was instantly held against his massive shoulder.

She didn't think twice before laying her head down and promptly fell closed her eyes. Her long flyaway hair tickled the small patch of exposed skin under Valjean's chin.

Upon reaching the door, he hesitated a fraction, and then yanked it open.

Inspector Javert was, as usual, right outside his door. His back was turned as if he wanted his ears on alert, instead of those piercing eyes.

Valjean froze, staring at the rigidity of the Inspector, uncomprehending. Then he shouted:

"You're on fire!"

Immediately he reached over and snatched a fistful of Javert's grey coat, just as the man whirled around, knocking over the candle. Wax pooled on the floor, instantly solidifying. Valjean beat the tiny tongues of flame that threatened to consume the man, until only scorch marks remained on both Javert and the wall.

Both men stood panting, while Cosette merely just squirmed for a better position.

"Papa, you're too loud..."

Adjusting his hold upon the tiny child, he realized he still held the Inspector in his grasp. He instantly let go, the burnt coattails finding their way back to their owner.

"Sorry, that you caught on fire," Valjean mumbled, staring at the stark white wax scab. "Thanks for waiting for me."

When no response was given, Valjean brought his gaze upwards until it found the Inspector's face, who had been observing him from under the brim of his hat.

"Seems that's what I'm meant to do."

Valjean had no response for that, and with no further remark from the stoic man, began the descent downstairs. As expected, Javert's came not a second later, matching his striking footfalls in tandem.

* * *

The inn Javert lead them to was a humble one, despite its proximity to the city centre, but it was large enough to always have room for a group of wary travellers. Luckily for Javert, they held true to their word. Unluckily for Javert, it was _a_ vacancy. He grumbled, yet without further inquiry paid the host and obtained an ornate key for the last available room.

The whitewashed bedchamber was small, but spacious enough for men who were used to sleeping in confided quarters and sharing it with masses of other people. The night was shut behind a pair of green shutters, clasped tightly, though a few fingers of moonlight searched through the cracks and played with the white bedspread underneath.

A woman bustled her way through the two men and they broke apart to let her pass, lest they had a desire to become splashed with water from her bucket.

After depositing the washbasin upon the small table, the woman automatically hurried over to the fireplace and began her ministrations upon the wooden limbs, massaging and coaxing them to roar with a lively fire.

Valjean went over to the washbasin and tried to rouse Cosette from sleep, but she was as animate as Catherine at this point. Instead, Valjean merely shifted her exposing her face, and began to wipe it clean. He concentrated on allowing the small swatch of cotton to grace her shallow face, picking up any traces of dirt or debris from under her dark eyelashes and in the crevices of her ear.

Once satisfied, he placed her on the bed and began to redress her back into her nightgown. Valjean chuckled warily, as he found himself in procession of an overly large doll. He pushed her over to the edge bunkered by the wall and then turned to address his other companion.

Who was much closer than he remembered.

The Inspector stood a little more than an arm's length in that if he truly desired, he could reach over and touch him. Instead Valjean simply stood, watching Javert as he contemplated the fire.

"I will need to obtain some additional bedding from the inn keeper," observed Javert, without looking over.

"You're staying?" asked Valjean, incredulously.

"Of course," he stated, simply. "Not only can I not leave you to your own devices, but I live quite a ways from here."

"There's only one bed."

"Thank you for pointing out the obvious."

"I meant," emphasized Valjean, "that Cosette could take the bed, and we could spend the night on the floor."

"The bed is certainly big enough for two, so why should we waste that? You share the bed with her."

"That's not fair," said Valjean, his sense of fair-mindedness overriding all other thoughts.

Javert conferred with his buttons.

"What?"

"I said, unlike me, you have a certain fondness for children, so you will not squash her in her sleep."

Javert straightened, took his hat and hastened to the door.

"Now if you will excuse me, I will be downstairs."

Suddenly the full weight of the day's events settled upon Valjean; he yawned, stretching and loosening the tautness of his wary face. Making his way to the washbasin, he clumsily attended to his own adulations, and took to the bed. Cosette clung to the wall like a ship barnacle so there was more than enough room for his massive frame.

Once settled, he kept staring at the low cross-beams of the ceiling. His ears strained for the merest morsel of sound that would indicate the Inspector's immediate return. However, the soft fluttering of Cosette's breath and the crackling dance of light upon the room soon pulled Valjean into the oblivion of sleep.

The single cry of Notre Dame fell upon deaf ears when the outsider intruded once more upon the slumber of the two outcasts. The blurred silhouette hovered between the two worlds of grey before entering the chamber and gradually shutting the door.

* * *

Later that night, Valjean awoke to get water. Tongue languishing thickly in his mouth, he extricated himself from the folds of the woollen blanket and sat upon the edge of the bed. He quickly assessed the mess of brown hair that sprung from the covers. Finding nothing amiss with Cosette, he regarded the room.

The hearth had died down. A few softly glowing embers quietly bathed the large figure that slept there with soft strokes of vermillion.

Pulled by a sudden pang of curiosity, Valjean padded across the wood and stood near the sleeping form of Inspector Javert. Comfortable warmth washed over his exposed arms and feet.

The Inspector had used an extra blanket, folded twice, as a makeshift mattress. He used his overcoat as a blanket instead, despite the obvious fact that though large, it wasn't intended to cover the gangling limbs of its owner. However, Javert had curled in upon himself, nose buried in the collar of his coat. His large hands nestled his relaxed profile upon the pillow. Javert's shirtsleeves were completely and utterly white; a stark contrast to the dark hues that constantly painted the man.

Valjean remained thus, cataloguing every nuance: the ruffled hair that curled around his ear, the crow's feet etched upon his face, and the small tremors that sometimes shook his frame.

Frowning, Valjean went to the pitcher near the washing basin, took a mouthful, and grabbed his yellow coat from the back of the chair. He laid it on top of Javert's exposed limbs, and glanced over his handiwork. Satisfied, he rejoined Cosette, and fell asleep.

* * *

The next morning, a large hunk of cloth struck Valjean's face. Lurching forward, he tore it off, and gasped at the cool air. A small chuckle arrested his attention instantly and he growled as he recognized the smirking face of Police Inspector Javert. However, he fell back against the bedclothes when the small form of Cosette peeped out from behind his trouser leg.

Valjean groaned, and threw an arm over his eyes. His breathing slowly became regular.

"What time is it?"

"Our Lady stated it was eight, and that was approximately fifteen minutes ago."

"Ah." He tossed his arm against the pillow and his eyes fixed upon the ceiling.

"Why didn't you wake me earlier?"

"I had to ponder the best way to wake you," remarked Javert pointedly.

Valjean looked down at the jumbled blankets that wound around his sprawled limbs. One of his bare feet poked out from the mess, and he wiggled the toes. Another sheet littered the floor a few feet from the bed.

"Point taken."

Silence fell. Cosette came out from Javert's protection and began to play with Catherine in the corner. He smiled when he noticed that she was already dressed and ready to go. Hairs prickling, he turned from his attention from Cosette and noticed the Inspector staring at him intently.

"We will be going to the police-station today, once you attend to your needs and we break our fast. Be quick about it, because we cannot put this off any longer. We need to fix those mistakes within your parole papers, and I need to discuss this with the Commissaire as well. I will be speaking with the innkeeper now, to procure our meal."

Valjean nodded, as the Inspector he remembered broke through his memories and came alive once more.

Javert made his way to the door and swung it open with one fluid motion, but stopped suddenly. His hand clenched around the handle. His deep voice permeated the whole room as he addressed the empty air around him.

"Valjean, do not do that again."

"What?" Brows furrowed, he squirmed his way into a sitting position, bracing himself on his arms.

"I don't want your charity."

Then Javert simply placed his hat atop his head and left, without looking back. Valjean waited until the painted wood clicked shut before he ploughed a hand through his hair, tufts poking out from cracked fingers.

It would do no good to dwell on the peculiarities of this man. He never understood him in Montreuil-sur-Mer, and his education discontinued with his arrest.

A deep sigh washed through his body and spilled forth, cleansing his thoughts.

He got up from the bed and untangled his limbs from the sheets. Punting the last bit of offending wool from his bare foot, he called to Cosette. She began to gather her meagre belongings as Valjean plunged his face into the shallow basin and gave his tempered visage a rub-down with soap and towel. When he emerged from the smothering cotton, a peek of faded yellow appeared in the mirror. Valjean stared it, before a single word, loaded with the same exasperation a mother has for her husband's stubbornness spilled forth from his lips:

"Damn."

The damp cloth collided with the chipped basin, splashing the contents. Snatching up the offending yellow coat, Valjean called to Cosette and quitted the room.

* * *

Late morning was not ideal for three mismatched people to arrive at one of the busiest prescient in all of Paris. They burst upon the Place du Chatelet, scowls place upon their faces. Even the little girl was frowning as she toted around her paraplegic comrade dressed in frills and lace. However, whereas Valjean's frown was more reserved for himself, Javert was a very charitable fellow in providing every colleague, citizen, and criminal an individualized sample.

Valjean was aware that, although they were ambling along at an ungainly pace due to Javert's impatience, they were the main course for the station's insatiable hunger for gossip. Mouths gobbled and spit back gobs of speculation and mangled bits of truth.

This shared buffet between strangers caused Valjean to become nauseated. His stomach flipped and bashed itself like curdling milk in a churn.

He quickened his step, swooped Cosette in his arms, and tailed behind Javert. Javert glanced over this shoulder. A strong voice sliced through the stench of regurgitated conjectures:

"It's always like this; don't let it get to you."

Valjean simply nodded, though he was still behind the Inspector. So he reaffirmed his understanding with small thanks.

They arrived at the Commissaire Marcel Lautrec's door, which surprised Valjean as he was expecting to meet up once again with his officer, Ary Baudot, first. A flock of chirping thoughts rushed his head, but he shooed them instantly, reminding himself that what will be, will be. He would deal with problems as they arrived. When Javert knocked thrice against the dark wood, Valjean steeled himself.

A curse, then an answering yell:

"If it isn't Javert, I personally don't want to see you right now!"

Javert just smirked at Valjean's questioning look.

"It seems like we're expected."

And with a flourish, Javert threw open the door and marched right in.

Valjean took in the messy office, nearly tripping over the piles of books on the floor. The musty scent of subdued masculinity radiated from the variety of taxidermy trees along with the sweet musk of tobacco. Catherine interrupted his silent perusal with a bob of her fussy curls, and he used his free hand to push her out of his line of sight. A half-opened shutter mixed this intoxicating brew with a fresh dash of crisp air and random street noise. Highlighted with a swatch of midday sun, the Commissaire was bent over behind his desk, grunting as he reinforced his walls with a stack of leather-bound books. Interestingly enough, the desk remained as pristine as Valjean's old mayoral one.

"Sniffing for truffles?"

Valjean's mouth fell open and he whipped towards Javert, who stood in _contrapposso, _arms crossed and a quirk to his lips. 

"Could be. But it seems you were the one out hunting last night," returned the Commissaire as he slowly straightened. He placed both hands in the middle of his back and bent backwards. A sharp _pop!_ rent the air and he shook himself.

"Unf." He swiped the arms of his uniform, and jerked the lapels taut.

"I swear," he stated, shaking a finger as he faced Javert, "They need to stop updating all these laws, because I will soon have enough to build a second home with them! Not that it will do me any good if I break my back hauling these damned things around."

Javert simply smiled and presented Valjean to the man.

"Good morn—wait, it's the afternoon now. So good afternoon!" He thrust out a hand over the desk. "I've heard a lot about you, Jean Valjean."

With both pairs of blue eyes trained upon him, one as warm as the sea and the other as cold as ice, he took the proffered hand awkwardly with his left. His other was currently battling the swinging feet of two little ladies.

"Thank you sir," said Valjean as the warmth of the Commissaire's stained fingers and gregarious smile eased his trepidation.

"And who might this little lady be?" addressed the man to Cosette, who immediately removed herself into the cradle of Valjean's bulging bicep. Catherine, ever diligent, shielded her from the Commissaire's interest.

"She's Cosette," stated Valjean, wrapping his free arm around the child. "I apologize for not stating her presence before. I was not told it was required."

Surprised, Commissaire Lautrec sought out Javert, who merely replied:

"It's true."

Sighing, Lautrec plopped himself into his worn fabric-lined chair, and massaged his temple with one hand while yanking open a bottom drawer with the other. A tired and crusty inkwell and a wilting feather quill soon joined ranks with yet another parole report.

He gestured for Valjean to take a seat, and he sat down upon the small chair. He sat Cosette upon his thigh, and immediately she set Catherine into exploring the new landscape, her china feet dancing over his legs. The Inspector remained standing.

"Doubtless you understand how this procedure plays out, am I correct?" asked the Commissaire.

"Yes."

"So we will simply fix and question you upon the areas of interest as we see fit, is that clear?"

"Yes."

"The girl, Cosette, how did you obtain her and what is your relation?" He dipped his quill and began to write the basic necessities.

"I bought her."

Ink bled from the tip of the feather quill, blotting out Valjean's first name.

The Police Commissaire's eyelids opened and shut deliberately, much like two smuggler's lamps communicating in the night. Javert slowly uncrossed his arms.

"Wha-what?"

Catherine continued to dance merrily upon Valjean's thigh.

"I said I bou—"

"For God's sakes!" yelled Javert, causing both girls to turn in his direction. They cringed.

"He didn't buy the girl; he paid off the debts owed by her mother to her caretakers."

"Ah, well then," coughed the Commissaire, as he riffled through his drawer and removed a cigarette. "Why didn't you say all that before?"

"He did," grunted Javert, staring out the window. His fingers tapped a personal rhythm against his sleeve.

Lautrec sent him a look.

"Apparently, I'm his translator."

Valjean gave Cosette a small pat on her hand before picking her up and removing the bit of coat from underneath her body. A bruised and battered letter was promptly removed from the pocket and handed over to the Commissaire.

"Here, this is the letter given to me by her late mother, which was entrusted to me. I believe it will clear up all confusion," said Valjean.

Clenching the smoking bouquet between his teeth, he leant over the mahogany wood and took it. A small piece of crisply folded parchment tumbled out.

"What's that?"

Valjean stared at the paper.

"I am not sure." He raked through his memories of the past month, but he never had cause to write anything. Nor could he remember receiving anything not relating to his parole.

Javert snatched it up, and unwrapped it.

"Oh ho!" He immediately barked out some resemblance of a laugh that bucked all three occupants of Valjean's seat with its intensity. Valjean settled himself back into the interrogation chair, but a disgruntled Cosette removed herself and Catherine to a less mobile seat. She threw him dirty looks from the corner and conspired with her cohort as they sat atop two thrones of heavy legal volumes.

Holding the paper between his index and middle finger, Javert passed the paper over as he sat on the edge of the desk.

"Marcel, what do you make of this?"

Eyebrows shoot up under the limp curls on his superior's forehead.

"Well, it certainly looks like he was out hunting once again, to be sure." He turned the slip over. "Not that I expected him to try again so soon."

"Handsome devil though he may be, I think he failed with this one."

They both turned to Valjean, who began to squirm as Javert smiled devilishly.

"Did you ever read this letter?"

"No," he replied as he began to pluck at the ceases in his worn trousers. "I don't even recall the circumstances in which I was given it."

Both men exchanged glances and peals of laughter.

"Well, my old man," chuckled the Commissaire, taking a long drag on the cigarette, "would you like to read it?"

Valjean tentatively took the sliver of Pandora's box. It simply contained a street address, one that Valjean did not recognize:

_24 Rue du Fenêtre_

But he did know the signature that graced the bottom invitingly with its long drawn out swirls and elegant crosses.

Heat rushed up from his collar and he immediately crumpled the invitation in his hand and jammed it into his pocket.

"Ah, I'm sorry about that," consoled the Commissaire, as he released a spurt of smoke. Javert was turned towards the desk, but kept flicking glances his way.

"Well, first off, we must obtain suitable lodgings for our man here," stated Javert, returning to the task at hand, "You should have seen what they were living in."

"I have evicted criminals out that tenement, wouldn't you know?" said Lautrec teasingly, as he resumed his report.

"Oh, wait, regarding that…"trailed the Commissaire, frowning. He rapidly ripped open a drawer, removed a small parcel of paperwork, and flipped to the back page. Once he finished scanning the document, he regarded Valjean through narrowed eyes.

"Where did you state your place of residence was when you arrived at the prescient?" he inquired, leaning over the desk.

This statement spurred Javert to prowl closer as well, until Valjean felt as if he was being held at knifepoint with sharpened eyes and grim countenances.

"_No._50-52Boulevard de l'Hôpital," answered Valjean, gripping his trousers tightly.

A small movement from Javert arrested his attention as he belatedly noticed how close the man had gotten. Unlike the Commissaire, there was no barrier between them. Javert kneeled down so they were level with one another, and regarded him with those pale eyes.

"No other address?" questioned Javert softly, his lips barely moving. "Answer me truthfully, Valjean."

Valjean merely leaned forward, enough that he could discern the slight movement of Javert's breathing, and stated:

"I am a free man now. I will not jeopardize that for anything."

He searched his face for a moment longer and then stood up and stepped to the Commissaire's desk.

"Something's up with Sergeant Baudot's reports then," stated Javert solemnly. The Commissaire nodded.

"Not with Monsieur Valjean then?"

"No. He's telling the truth," said Javert, "I admit, I found something strange with the fact that when I first received the report, it was only half finished."

"Indeed." The Commissaire leaned back in his creaking chair and regarded both Javert and Valjean, assessing them: the stern, dark imposing figure of his subordinate, and the gentle, nondescript persona of the pardoned man opposite of him.

Sighing, he gathered up all the papers and placing Fantine's unopened letter atop the bundle, he put it back into the drawer. He let a small smile grace his lips as he returned his attentions to his colleague.

"Oh yes. Javert?" The man straightened, awaiting orders.

"Madame Vuillard has delivered the letters you requested." He pulled a parcel of letters, tied with a red bow and creased as if a one avidly read and reread them every waking hour. Valjean had only caught a glimpse of these species of correspondence once, and it was a collection avidly guarded by the late Fantine.

Reminiscent of Cosette upon receiving her doll, Javert took the letters eagerly, body quivering in its excitement.

"Took her damned time, didn't she?"

"Well, according to the sergeant that had to deal with her this morning, she was hesitant to let them go."

He gave the bow a sharp tug, deflowering the bundle.

"It would seem so; she trussed them up better than a Christmas goose."

"Well, her argument was that she received her son once she paid the ransom, so she saw no need to hand them over." He turned to the window and flicked the finished cheroot outside. "To be honest, I think you're lucky to get them at all. I happened upon the scene and had to use my full authority to pry them from her hands."

"And that's why Paris pays you all those francs," remarked Javert as he picked the top letter from the pile. Valjean noticed it was simply addressed: Madame Vuillard.

"Urgh, did she drench these things in perfume?"

"I think she might have coddled them."

Javert grimaced. "If my appetite's ruined, I will heap the blame upon your curly head."

The Commissaire halted Javert's rampant enthusiasm with a loud cough.

He nodded in Valjean's direction. "Javert, will you inform me of your progress in this once you have time?"

The Inspector immediately retied the parcel and stuck it in the crook of his arm.

"I plan on doing so tonight in fact, once I get these two ensconced in some sickingly normal dwelling. I know that you have the same curiosity I do in regards to this."

"Ah, plan on coming in early then? You know that you are required to attend your beat this time. Especially considering that Sergeant Grosz will be part of your squad. I swear, who hired that poor guy as a sergeant de ville? His nerves are not cut out for the customers we deal with."

Javert grinned.

"Ah, well, one night with me, and he'll be begging for more, or," he drawled, "he'd be so broken, you could finally hire a more competent sergeant."

Javert motioned for Valjean to get moving, and he summoned Cosette from her little niche in the corner. His heart welled in his chest as she relayed the avid adventure she and Catherine had during his own foray with strange police commissaires and their even stranger inspectors.


	7. 7- I Shall Raise the Sun

Jean Valjean was a man of minimal needs. He wanted nothing more in life than to feel his unfettered limbs push through loamy soil and coax to life all sorts of growth and mystery from Nature's earth. As if enticing him to rebel, Fate relished tossing glimpses of these desires and then wrenching them away like a child with a string of sweets. Repeated constantly, he had grown used to her predictable gameplay.

Nothing however, prepared Valjean for the perplexity that was Inspector Javert. This man never seemed beholden to such whims, charging forward through life as he saw fit. During their years together in Montreuil-sur-Mer, he never paid much attention to the presence of the Inspector, as he always kept himself distant from all inhabitants and pilgrims that sought his advice or patronage. However, this man kept a watchful eye on him, enough that their paths often crossed, evoking a sense of curiosity that sparked within Valjean. Like an accidental splash of water, something sprouted, something that had him observing Javert with the same apprehension of a scientist upon a new species.

Now, Valjean found himself resuming that exploration.

With the exchange and interplay he witnessed between Javert and Police Commissaire Lautrec, he realized he had minuscule twinge of envy for the ease of communication they shared: the kind that allowed playful banter and seriousness within the confines of the work environment. It was something that he never had the pleasure to participate in.

But if he was honest with himself, it wasn't something he purposely sought out.

He looked to his left at the unyielding profile of the Inspector, trying to connect the laughing face of minutes before with this model representation that he always assumed was Javert.

Instead, vague flashes supplanted themselves from the recesses of his memory and floated just out of reach.

A bowed head, his own incredulous laughter, and the knowledge that there was one person who knew him—

"So you had no idea that's what the Commissaire des Chioumes wanted?"

Flustered, Valjean kept up the pace, eyes forward. He waved in between them.

"I told you I didn't read it."

"Why not?"

Luckily, a bag of limbs in glasses interrupted and planted itself in front of the trio. He grinned at Cosette with a small, lopsided smile. Unlike before with the Police Commissaire, she did not hide, but instead showed off her doll to the over-sized boy. A grin burst upon his face.

"Ah, René!"

The boy hoisted himself up, reluctantly.

"Yes, what is it, sir?"

Eyes darting between the bland smile of the Inspector and the burly form of Valjean, René seemed as though he was being set up for some unpleasant task.

"Do you have an idea of homes for let for someone of means?"

Valjean's hand tightened around Cosette's and he shot Javert a glare. That wasn't something he had any right to disclose to strangers.

The Inspector ignored him completely.

"Like what?" René's shoulders loosened and his stance eased a little.

"Our man here needs a place to live; one suitable for a growing child."

Cosette had tugged her hand loose and was presently helping Catherine climb the wood panelling.

"Hmm, I might be able to dig up some information after I get done filing this paperwork on that Millet household robbery."

"How fast?"

"Even you know I can't predict that," snorted René, tapping his spotted face. "A day at most; check back tomorrow."

"So much for wishful thinking," sighed Javert. He tossed a glance towards Valjean, who was currently leashing in a terribly energetic Cosette. "I hope that you do not mind staying at the inn until we get the matter of your housing resolved."

Valjean frowned, chafing at the way everyone seemed to want to control his life. First, Javert evicted him from his own home and now? Now the man wanted to pick out his next place of residence. He lived a majority of his life living where others wanted him: Toulon, Montreuil-sur-Mer, Paris. It was intolerable; he paid his dues. Taking a fortifying breath between clenched teeth, he braced himself.

"I do not mind," granted Valjean, attempting to keep his tone even. "But as it is the matter of _our _housing, I would like to have a say in this process. I will be present."

"Did I ever say otherwise? There you go, jumping to conclusions as always."

Valjean rolled his shoulders and prepared to deliver a scathing retort, but René interrupted hastily.

"Come around eight the morning, sir, if that isn't too much trouble. The officers at that hour are only-half awake, so the noise and activity level is calmer than other times of the day."

Valjean nodded, cupping Cosette's bobbing head in an effort to calm both of them down before their noon repast.

Javert rolled his eyes at the bouncing child. "Thank you, René. Sometimes I swear you are the most valuable person on in this whole deplorable establishment."

He pushed his lip towards his nose as he considered something. Then he surveyed the empty corridor.

René tensed.

"I need a favour."

At this single declaration, the lad threw his overly large stained hands into the air and shook them.

"I knew it! I woke up this morning and said to myself, 'Oh, that Monsieur Javert is going to make me do him a favour, I just know it!' And my sister said I was being absurd, but here we are!"

Javert folded his arms. Immediately, René ceased his mid-air assault, hands plummeting to his sides.

"I'm not making you do anything. I just stated that I need a favour. It's up to you whether or not you want to fulfil that necessity for me."

René just huffed and blustered between his glasses, causing Valjean to reminiscence fondly about another time a man threw a fuss about something similar. His hand went to his collar and he tugged it a bit.

"Fine, what is it? You know you owe me one huge massive list of debts, like the kind that could send you to debtor's—WAIT, it better not—"

"Almanzo? Yes. I need you to pay him a visit," said Javert with an air of nonchalance.

"Holy hell, Javert! You know how much I hate going there! He's...I mean..." René's pallor became tinged with pink, and Valjean strategically positioned his hand to hide his mirth.

"Is there any secret to reigning in that guy?"

Javert cocked a brow, smug.

"Well, I take it you've never paid attention when we questioned him together, hmm?"

René blushed even further, until it seemed his very lenses would mist over. As if reading Valjean's thoughts, the boy pulled them from his face and began wiping them fervently.

"Yes I did, in a matter of fact. But I...there's no way I can do that!"

Javert laughed, the deep baritone wrangling two different reactions: bewilderment on behalf of Valjean, and exasperation from René.

"Are you sure that I could even obtain the information you desire?"

A large hand clamped upon René's shoulder, in that ancient custom of mentor to apprentice. Javert replied solemnly:

"I wouldn't send you there if it would be a waste of both of our time. I told Almanzo ahead of time that I might not make it on account of my caseload, and he understands to only leave a message for my proxy. And that is you."

René looked up at Javert's stern, yet strong expression, and nodded, "I won't let you down, sir."

"Thank you René. I need this information promptly, and it does me good to know I chose the right person."

He took a step back, and mused, "I guess I can start repayment of my debts to you now." He dug into his pocket, pulled a few sous and couple of francs and pressed them into the boy's hand. "Go buy yourself a coffee."

René pulled a face.

"Not at that cafe, I'm not!"

* * *

Like stray dogs, Javert deposited Valjean and Cosette at the inn, and left, disregarding any attempts of Valjean's to repay him. Valjean conferred with the ceiling again that night, before falling asleep from exhaustion.

Remembering the Inspector's penchant for preciseness, Valjean had arrived promptly ten minutes before eight, but it was for naught. The Inspector never showed. He felt relieved; though of what, he couldn't fathom. He felt relaxed and antsy; at peace, yet at a loss. It was as if two people were missing instead of one.

René, true to his word, had found some homes, and much to Valjean's surprise, most were tailored to his tastes: out of the main thoroughfares, secreted away in the great metropolis of Paris. Even more shocking was that every suggestion drawn up included a yard. He had never voiced this wish aloud.

The three of them spent the entire day, bundled in a hired conveyance together travelling to and from every home, each one more acceptable than the last. However, it wasn't until they turned upon the Rue du Babylon that Valjean felt something inexplicable. It had him leaning forward in his seat, as he took in the parcels of intricate gardens leading up to the house upon the Rue Plumet.

It was a modest summer-home, but it accommodated the adventurous spirit that had always inhabited Valjean. The stone work protected the dwelling in warm notes of sienna and French grey alongside its vine-clad comrades. The intricate iron gate stood sentinel upon the main thoroughfare, revealing everything and nothing. Valjean could feel its inert strength as he laid his cheek upon the reassuring metal, hands grasping the bars. An acre of riotous growth protected the two-story home with a multitude of shrubbery and trees, suiting Valjean's fondness for secrecy.

But most of all, he felt drawn to a masked door, one decorated with an overabundance of ivy, moss and the grasping tendrils clinging to the warping wood. During the walk-around, René showed no knowledge of its existence, and Valjean did not feel like disclosing his momentous find. Unlike most things he had, this was something was his and his alone.

So he rented this property and settled down with Cosette, in that early summer of 1824.

As human beings, we bestowed with a 'traveller's heart': that yearning to see what lies beyond the next task and what ventures lay in store for the oncoming sunrise. Whether it is continued introspection into a beloved friend, the conclusion to a hard day's work, or traversing well-worn paths, all life heeds that call. Because of this, we find comfort in our rituals: the melodic rush of water bathing porcelain, the gentle graze of bristles tingling the scalp, the stroke of sugar as it soothes its way down your throat. Nothing soothes or strengthens the adventurer's soul more than a well-tuned ritual.

And Jean Valjean was no different.

He and Cosette fell into a secure routine, waking every morning to a modest breakfast accompanied by open-hearted patter and honest listening. Though it happened less and less, Cosette would often ask afterwards if something needed sweeping or cleaning, to which Valjean would reply, "Play!"

Not to say that Cosette did not take up cleaning. If any wandering soul managed to walk the Rue de Plumet after noon's repast and look beyond the wrought iron gate, they could chance upon a memorable sight. An older gentleman, with dirty shirtsleeves pushed past brawny arms, would be working at a variety of outdoor chores: scrubbing shutters, wiping windows, or scouring the smooth paving stones. And like a playful stray, a gangly girl could be seen tagging alongside, adult-sized tool in hand as she helped him. While he lifted heavy stones, she swept them. When massive hands yanked out beds of weeds, nimble fingers plucked out spare dandelions. Sometimes the seeds would scatter, accompanied by notes of pure gaiety from the pair. Nothing is more endearing than beholding whimsy of youth and wisdom of age in perfect harmony!

Their afternoons were filled with a dual education for the lonely pair. Valjean taught Cosette necessary things such as her alphabet, writing, maths, and the journeys that lay beyond those strings of symbols. And perhaps, most importantly, Cosette learned how to be a child. She smiled and begged for stories, punished Valjean with little pouts, and ran about, unleashed upon his secluded world. And in turn, she educated him in how to be a father.

Sometimes, when she was too exhausted during the day, he would lay her down for a nap. Often, he would watch her sleep, her face soft in repose.

But on this particular day, something tar black and viscous, residing deep within his self, had begun to stir. All day, it stuck to his lungs, mangling his speech. It clogged his ears, censoring his understanding. It seized his limbs, muddled his thinking, and grappled with his heart.

Seeking the cleansing aura of the garden, he made his way outside, bathing in the calm breath of the dense foliage. They rustled and fanned him slightly: a welcome for their most frequent guest. However, it was the call of that secret door had him walking across vermouth grasses, cool beneath his bare feet.

Valjean opened the secret passage and beheld the tiny capillary that quietly beat within this nondescript piece of Paris. The path was pressed upon all sides by the slate bricks, overgrown with soft earthy moss. A swath of sky sliced through his vision with electric blues and lightning bright clouds. Delicate light shimmered upon the darkened cobbles, concealing shadow.

He bit his thumbnail.

Every day, he sought to taint Cosette by telling her stories from his past, but he felt disgusted with himself. When she asked for a story, he parried with a titillating fiction. When she asked about him, he did the same, stealing Monsieur Madeline's life for his own.

He sucked in a breath which quickly became entangled within his chest.

This cancerous need to inscribe, to convey, to disclose himself to another human being; such an indescribable desire! It was like returning to an additive vice, one that resided within his mind, whispering, insinuating:

_You are Jean Valjean._

_A convict. _

Was it wrong to reside within rose-coloured deceit to spare a child entrusted to him? Or would it be better to drench her with the honest horror of his past?

Of course, his internal echo was the only answer he received.

He removed his foot from the threshold.

A dull murmur rose from the passage as he shut the gate, but it wasn't in a language that he could translate.

* * *

Later that week, Valjean and Cosette returned to the prescient, much to the anticipation of the spectators. Valjean even noticed some familiar faces, and much to his discomfort, some of them were civilians. Or worse.

He rushed up to the front desk sergeant, whom he didn't recognize. But strangely, the man already knew who he was.

"Ah! You're Jean Valjean! The infamous criminal Mayor! Ah, you're a regular rebel, aren't you?"

He continued to babble despite Valjean's hurried attempts to interject and obtain permission to see his parole officer. When the officer decided to bring Cosette into his rambles, Valjean directly aborted his process with a simple, "That's enough."

Upon seeing his criminal mask affixed to his normally bland features, the officer sputtered and promptly averted his eyes, screwing them to the desk. Blindly searching about for a pencil, his fumbling fingers knocked into one, sending it skittering across the marked wood. Snatching it up, he hastily scribbled out a pass and pointed Valjean down the corridor he had traced many times before.

Officer Baudot was sitting at his desk and as usual, he did not rise to greet Valjean when he entered the disordered office. Instead he opened his arms wide, as if lifting a wine cask and belted:

"Well, there's my main man! Welcome back!" He fell back into his chair.

"I have to say, did he get to you first?"

Valjean cocked his head, the closed door framing his confusion.

"With the news?" tried Baudot.

"What are you talking about?" asked Valjean.

"Ah, so that's how we roll around here, sprinkling information where we see fit, but not where it's required."

He chucked out a coarse laugh.

"Well, you see my friend, you have been ripped out from under my nose. You're no longer my man!"

Valjean started.

"You now belong to that scoundrel Javert," barked Baudot. "That man's always sniffing about for something more to do, I'm surprised he hasn't keeled over from work!" Angling his head upwards toward the ceiling, he mumbled something unintelligible.

Valjean's lips thinned. Cosette stilled her treatment of his wrinkly vest when he pulled her closer and pressed her against his hip.

"I see that you're as unhappy as I am," muttered Baudot. He tucked himself behind his hand and stared at the pile of paperwork on his desk, labelled _Coypel_ in very smudged handwriting.

"How interesting."

His bristled brows hunched over narrowed eyes as he wrestled his thoughts. Once he was finished, he stuck his square face into his other hand and considered Valjean over the desk.

"Well, Monsieur Valjean, there really isn't much you or I could do here. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away and all that nonsense," he gestured madly to the air, as if swatting a plague of flies.

He blew a puff of air out the corner of his mouth. "Can't argue with the top, eh?"

He closed his eyes and chuckled softly to himself. When they reopened, however, they were transfigured, dark and blunting in their intensity.

"But if anything goes wrong with your new…officer, don't be afraid to come calling, you hear?" he stated.

"Thank you, and yes, I will," said Valjean, quietly. Head bowed he left, and walked down the darkening corridor. A few lamps were lit, but otherwise it was still gloomy, so he didn't see Javert when he passed by his office.

"So I take it you finally received the news?"

Valjean turned. Javert stood, one hand on the doorjamb, exposed with the single light of a candle, residing deep within his room. But he could voice only one single thought.

"Why?"

The Inspector shifted.

"You're not being articulate, Valjean. What exactly do you want to know?"

"Why did you do it?"

"Ah, so you think it's all about me, I'm touched."

"Javert," said Valjean, tugging at his ear. "Why exactly did my parole officer change?"

"So now you're demanding answers, when normally you would barrel through with your own conclusions."

Javert looked back into his office.

"Do you have the time?"

He then rested a shoulder against the dark wood of his half-open entrance.

"Will you stay a while?"

Valjean staggered back a few steps. Cosette followed his lead, hand gripping the loose ends of his shirt.

"I cannot." His throat was dry.

"It's late, and I have not hired a housekeeper yet, so I must stay with Cosette."

He swallowed. Fleetingly, Javert's throat mimicked the action.

"I see. Take care, Jean Valjean."

He walked away, fighting the magnetic pull to turn and inquire as to what Javert meant. An inebriating mix of apprehension and curiosity kept his limbs in forward motion, but deadened them. Each step further felt like Valjean was about to snap a tenuous thread of rubber, ready to recoil and strike.

Despite his determination to remove himself from the fearful presence of the Inspector, some beguiling siren's call insinuated itself around him, urging him to look back.

And he did: just a passing glance over his shoulder.

Javert had remained leaning against the doorway, his broad hands tucked under his arms. That single glance snapped their eyes together, with the force of well-honed trap. Salty sweat seeped into the cuts on Valjean's hands, incinerating them. He escaped, but not before the burn burrowed, beaten into the crevices of his body with every pulse of blood.


	8. 8- Only in Public can We be Private

Summer is upon us when idle hands are engaged and busy thoughts are subdued and forgotten. Bees droned as they flitted through containers of wildflowers, open shutters and cooling baked goods, bursting with steamed fruits. Houses spit forth remnants of shut-in days and bided time. Outside, mothers and nannies shepherded scores of energized children, steering them away from mischief. Others set off to gather the day's wares, each stall visit a small victory for the hunter of bargains.

Meanwhile, men took to the heat, concentrating on increasing their productivity. Sweat clung to backs, plastering the limp material to bunching muscles and straining limbs. Efficiency was often measured in how fast work was completed and the amount of gossip consumed. Upon returning home to their familiars, they would find themselves richer, the acclamation of job well done jingling in their pockets.

Like everyone else, Valjean did not resist the arrival of summer. He allowed himself to be swept up in the numbing warmth. He did not wish to dwell on his upcoming parole meeting. Any seed of thought was buried under the multitude of mindless chores that accompanied his new property. Instead, he calmed himself with everyday occurrences: awaking to the stroke of the sun, the simple act of preparing meals, and small discoveries to be had in his new life. This time-honoured rehearsal of normalcy gradually changed the house on the Rue Plumet to a home.

Everyday Valjean and Cosette would take walks together. They were unique in that they sought places the rest of Paris overlooked. Some days, they submerged themselves in the hidden nooks that tingled with architectural tension as they bent towards each other. Other days had them wandering the wild, overgrown parks at war with thistles and weeds.

On this particular Friday, the sun lounged indolently in a liquid bed of clouds, so the pair made their way to a wheat field on the outskirts of Paris. The crop was too young to have learnt the pleasures of conversing with their peers. Since it was late May, there was no distracting chatter from the field.

Valjean reclined in the pasture, forearms staking themselves in the earth. He let Cosette play through the grasses, as she picked about the wheat stalks for clover stems and smooth pebbles. Though she wandered until she was just a miniature doll upon the horizon, Valjean stayed where he was soaking in the warm sun. His palms brushed across the clumps and pits of upturned earth, revelling in the prick of soil and stone.

He had this strange expectation of some momentous event about to unfurl, but no clue as to what. However, he did not delve into the matter; once tasted, Valjean was loathe to sour his contentment. A mind focuses elsewhere to mute such annoying feelings. Ears tuned into the stabbing caw of crows and the indecipherable rustling of grass, their blades clashing and sweeping across one another.

When he heard the addition of extra voices, he tensed. Muscles tightened into a bulging mass of energy. Once the high pitched shrieks and happy banter registered, he relaxed and exhaled. The oncoming footfalls kept him rooted where he was.

Panting, Cosette flushed into view, hands on her knees as she gathered her breath. She raked the fawn-coloured hair from her face, the fine strands clinging to her smudged fingers.

She asked, "Can I play with Monsieur Pierce and Mademoiselle Eva, please? They're not strangers; they are my new friends."

Two children instantly appeared, as if conjured. Both were in various stages of messiness. The girl's auburn plait was intact, but lopsided; she kept brushing it away with a dirt-encrusted hand. The boy had two fists full of weeds, and a large vertical swatch of soil from head to toe. It looked like someone had enough strength to shove him into the ground.

"Hello, sir!" They cheerfully waved in unison, though the boy refused to let go of his weeds.

"Good afternoon," greeted Valjean, looking up at the children. "What have you there?"

"Ah, well!" puffed the boy, bangs plopping into his eyes, "Me and my sis, we are planning on makin' dolls, you see. One fo' me—" he raised one hand—"and one fo' her." He raised the other. "But you see, we don't have any string, and there's nothing here that can work instead."

Cosette began to play with her hands as she piped in. "That's right. But then I told them that you always have everything in your pockets, so maybe there's string in there too."

"Perhaps." Valjean sat up and crossed his legs. He began to riffle through his pockets.

"Let's see what I can find." Fingers burrowed past coins, papers, odd knickknacks, and a pencil stub.

"Oh children, I am terribly sorry," said Valjean digging through the last pocket. He placed fisted hands on his knees. "I don't seem to have any string on me."

A collective moan of disappointment issued from the trio.

"But," replied Valjean, nonchalantly opening his closed palms, "I have twine."

Three pairs of feet flew upwards in unrestrained glee. They rushed the old man, who began snapping the length of twine into smaller pieces. Armed with their prizes, the three conferred together and began to tie the blades and stems into an acceptable human shape.

However Cosette, upon realizing there was to be only two dolls, sidled back to Valjean's side and squatted next to him. She ran her fingers through the loose soil. Valjean flicked a glaze her way, still watching the antics of the two other children.

"If you collect some grasses, Cosette, I could show you how to create one, like with Monsieur Pierce."

Her head snapped up, small mouth agape. "Really, then? You can?"

Eyes level with Cosette's own blue, he nodded.

"Oh, yes, thank you!" She scrabbled off the ground and began to supplant a variety of weeds, their roots coming loose in her frenzied attempts to remove them. In retaliation, they hurled clumps of soil at her printed dress.

She ambled back and dumped her collection on Valjean's lap. She promptly sat in front, a student eagerly awaiting instruction. Valjean allowed himself a small laugh and he immediately set to work, bundling the grasses together and removing the roots.

He talked aloud as he worked. "Now, Cosette, I'm making sure they are equal at one end...like a bouquet of flowers, you see? Makes it easier—"

He encased the bundle in the middle of his left hand and held the twine with the forefinger and thumb. "We have to give this little one a head, so I'll use the twine to tie it off."

Ravelling the spool, he snapped it with his teeth and wound it around the straw with ease. Finished, he secured it with a triple knot. He repeated this procedure again, to give the doll a waist.

It was a standard peasant's doll, without the benefit of limbs. Valjean always thought that ironic, since those were the most valued tools to the peasantry. Nevertheless, Cosette treated the handcraft with the same reverence and joy as she did with Catherine.

Like all children with gaining something new, she couldn't resist showing it to her friends. Immediately, they gathered around radiating enthusiasm for the appearance of this perfect doll.

When they learnt of who created it, they gathered up their attempts and begged Valjean to educate them as well. He happily complied, spoiled by their eagerness. As he twisted and retraced his steps from before, their faces became awash with delight. Their hands pointed and urged him to work faster.

The sun began to extend the shadows in the field, and the children had to leave. They exchanged promises of future meetings and sincere thanks for their company. After their departure, Valjean and Cosette left as well, picking their way back to the Rue Plumet. They chose a different path from before.

A nearby church chimed three, and the pair quietly ambled along the cobbles. They took in their surroundings, from the whitewashed walls of the flats to the random stray that would often appear and disappear like a benign apparition. As they turned a corner into a more marketable neighbourhood, Cosette was confronted with a novel sight.

"Papa! Look! They're selling books outside!"

"Why yes they are, aren't they? It must be the weather."

"Can we look then?"

"I take it you would like a book?"

"Oh no, no. I just want to look." Cosette fidgeted with the fold of her calico, picking at the tiny blossoms. She looked away biting her lip.

Despite his devotion and attentions, Cosette still was hesitant to voice her wants. She flitted around the topic like a bird around morsels of food.

Valjean looked down at her crown of wisping hair, fingered by the slight wind.

"Cosette."

She looked up once before scrutinizing her shoes. "Yes?"

"Let's go look at the books, and if we find one that you'd like to read, let's get it. After all, we don't have many books, so we should start collecting, am I right?"

Cosette perched a radiant gaze upon Valjean. Happiness swelled in his breast at the effect his simple invitation brought upon this child.

"Oh yes! Papa, we should!" She clasped her hands in delight, fingers congratulating each other. "Three books are just not enough! What would happen if we ran out of pages to read?"

She snatched up his lone hand and began tugging him towards the makeshift stall, covered haphazardly with leathers. The two tables were overblown with books of very size and taste resembling a successful hunt. Adventures overtook classics, their bulky frames no match for the fast and thrilling reads. Bibles were common fare shepherding the lesser known volumes of poetry and English texts.

Unlike most children from Valjean's limited experience, she did not rip open the covers and search avidly for the pictures. Instead she opened each and every book, examining them all for some clue as to which to take home.

Cosette would inquire to what the title was, especially if there was no indication to what knowledge hid behind those ordered strokes and spaces.

She finally settled on two choices, and Valjean saw that she was torn between them. One was simply titled _Poems _and the other was labelled _Combat des Animaux. _

"I don't know which one to pick," said Cosette, pursing her lips.

Valjean took the two stories from her hands and began walking to the wizened shopkeeper resting under the awning of his shop.

"We can get both. One for me, and one for you."

* * *

A bobbing light flitted though the white door, like a friendly will-o'-the-wisp banishing the shade to the corners of the room. The welcome light brushed the edges of the sparse room with strokes of orange and yellow. A lone bed stood directly in the middle of the wall opposite the brick in-lay fireplace. Two identical bed stands flanked the twin mattress, cleared of any items save for a small glass of water. Each stand had a small drawer for a person's miscellaneous knickknacks. Only a delicate, low-relief carving of a fleur-de-lis in the wood casually provided a clue to the room's inhabitant.

Suddenly a small girl erupted from the portal and flounced upon the pine wood bed, snowy linens arching upwards to envelop her.

The glow intensified as Valjean appeared, silver candlestick in hand. He walked over to the closest nightstand and placed the silver on top. She reached over the bedspread, pulled the drawer's wooden handle and retrieved a book.

"Can we read this tonight?" Cosette asked, handing the book over to Valjean.

"What? You have no want for Crusoe tonight, then?" he playfully laughed, taking it.

" I just want to see what's in this book now, but I can't read it yet."

"Ah," replied Valjean, the slim black volume flipped between his fingers. "Let's see who wrote these poems."]'

He turned to the title page. "A Monsieur Ignatius Trenchett, hmm? That's a most intriguing name."

Cosette wiggled to an upright position, cradled by the pillow. Catherine flopped on her shoulder as Valjean eased himself on the twin bed. It creaked mightily.

"Papa," she stated solemnly, "You're going to break the bed."

"Well, if I do, I promise you can have mine and I'll sleep on the floor."

"You don't have to do that, we can make room here," said Cosette, patting the bed.

"I thought that spot was for Catherine?"

"She's sharing."

"I see!" smiled Valjean, as he scanned the pages, an abundant mixture of watercolour illustrations and sonnets. "Goodness, for such a small book, there are a lot of poems and paintings in here."

He questioned Cosette as she rubbed her eyes awake. "Which one do you want?"

Reaching over, she quickly turned the pages by the corners, so she wouldn't bruise them.

"This one!" She jabbed a finger eagerly at the opposite page, which contained an intertwined illustration. On top of the page, a wheat field faded effortlessly into the diaphanous mix of grey and green cobblestones below. Delicate strands of seeds cascaded downwards from the golden meadow into the murky street scene. Accidental splashes dotted the stones, highlighting a lone figure.

Transfixed by the art, Valjean returned to Cosette when her little hands sought purchase on his forearm.

"Papa, papa!" she bounced. "You see, we go to these kinds of places all the time now. That's why I want to listen to this one."

Valjean raised a hand towards the overexcited child.

"Alright, but you have to lay your head down first, else the thoughts cannot settle."

With that, Cosette plopped herself once more into the folds of cloth and settled comfortably. Her hands clasped on the coverlet.

Satisfied, Valjean began to read with a soft deepness, words sparking to life:

_Fields of wheat, I yearn to seek_

_that long-lost youth which dares to peek._

_Through golden husks and scattered seeds,_

_fiercely bursts a desperate need. _

_Thrown from rest, I steal away; _

_A crimson fog melts with day._

_This midnight walk I take for you;_

_streets alight with drops of dew._

_Amongst the stones I traverse,_

_a beating heart which we immerse._

_Have you stood where I once stepped?_

_That ardent hope is one I kept._

_Within my blood an answer cries,_

_A rotting want that never dies._

Valjean remained thus, head bowed as he repeated the words, smoothing them over in his head. After a while, he looked over and found Cosette asleep, and he released a smile.

The book slid from his hands onto his lap. Fumbling, he caught it before it clamoured to the ground in its attempt to rouse Cosette. A page bit his finger. Pulling back, he snapped the book closed in one hand and placed it on the nightstand beside the half-full glass of water. He looked back at Cosette. Then, not wanting another accident like the night before, he removed the glass and took it with him.

* * *

That night, Valjean fell asleep undisturbed.

However, a couple of hours later, something tugged at Valjean, lips murmuring soundless thoughts. Exhausted, he sluggishly awoke, sleep pebbling off his skin. Eyes remained sealed shut with evaporated moisture.

Valjean tossed, shoving his face into the pillow. The quilt's touch intensified the collection of sweat sandwiched between cotton and skin. His eyes cracked open. The room slowly appeared through the murky gloom, shut door manifesting itself first and furniture encroaching in his peripheral vision. He laid there for a while, churning through thoughts that swamped his brain.

All of a sudden, he lurched forward. Fresh sweat bloomed on his skin. He wrestled off the blanket as he sought the cool balm of night air.

A thought finally registered: he would have to go and see Javert on the morrow.

He flopped back into the mattress. Rolling over, he snatched a pillow and pasted it on top of his head. It shut out the ambient glow, but drove in the unbidden thoughts. Enacting its full capabilities, his brain dredged up snippets of imagery.

Javert slashed with a blaze of white.

The touch of firelight.

Terrifying.

But that was impossible. Valjean's eyes were fully open, but saw nothing as they fought with remembered inconsistencies.

His Javert only wore that iron-grey coat, sharp and imposing, like a statue.

The bite of teeth, snapping out orders.

Arresting.

His head ached and dug into the cushions. Tangled hair poured across the linen, soft texture wrenching it away from his scalp. His arm hung over the edge of the bed.

Who is Javert?

Legs flung Valjean out of the entrapping sheets and bare feet grappled with the cold floor. Valjean wearily crossed the room to the washbasin. He combed hair downwards and patted down any remnants of sleep-deprivation. Discarded and rumpled clothing found their way onto his body, and he shoved his limbs through the cotton.

He threw on his worn yellow coat, and went to check on Cosette. Assuring himself of her deep slumber, he closed her door and snuck downstairs. He removed the house key from its hiding place and he left, locking the door behind him. When he reached the gate, he unlocked it, created the smallest gap he could and eased himself outside. He secured the entrance and regarded the empty streets.

The glistening metal of the lone streetlamp to his right beckoned him forward. He complied. As he got closer, the cold light tempting him with promises of warmth, another light appeared further down. He waited under that single lamp, bathed in the unfeeling glow before removing himself. Trying his luck with the next stop, he kept walking, pausing once in a while to stand under a new streetlamp as both false heat and a caressing chill battled for his freed skin.

As he continued to wander aimlessly through the abandoned streets of Paris, night sought to comfort Valjean with her specialized charms.

She called to him with the rhythm of four wooden wheels grinding across ancient stones. The accompanying clod of iron shoes beat out the pounding in his head. The strange solo of another human as she sought another in the darkness ended in a soft decrescendo.

Valjean slowed his feverish walk, buying into the guile.

A low fog descended. This ephemeral elixir snapped upon his tongue, and he savoured the saturation of his own vaporous breath as it mingled into the air. Infinite droplets kissed his lips and clung to his beard with the languorous playfulness of an indulgent lover. He sighed and allowed the collected drops to gently press his lids shut.

Though he felt relaxed, his throat quaked.

Suddenly his solitude was disrupted when he crashed into an animate wall.

"Watch where you're going, asshole!"

Alarmed, Valjean stumbled when an elbow jabbed him in the ribs. His arms rose to protect his face, slipping instinctively into a defensive boxer's stance.

However, the attacker had abandoned Valjean to resume his attention upon his game. A half-smiling woman, clad in a gaudy bodice torn at the edges, leant against the wall. She was wiping her arms free of the dew that settled there. Her exposed skin glistened, magnifying the palette of crimson, blacks, and blues that mottled her thin frame.

The man made a grab for her arm as well, but she timidly danced out of his reach.

"I need you to pay first sir...I already lost my wages before..."

An unintelligible snarl.

"You'll loose more than wages tonight if you don't come over here!"

The darkness twisted and snaked into a gaseous mass of fury as Valjean witnessed the man beat the whore into the wall. Her shriek gradually tapered off into hiccupping sobs.

Valjean wound his way to the crook, and deliberately squeezed his hand around his shoulder. Startled, the man tore his gaze from the miserable woman and was instantly besieged by a pair of ham-sized fists, yanking his soiled cravat over his flabby chin.

The man's wilted moustache hung over his grey lips as he burbled. Digging his massive paws deeper into the encased flesh, Valjean jerked upwards. His catch flopped and flailed weakly.

One hand let go. Freed, the man gasped for air, until he registered the bulging mass of clenched muscle and sinew hurtling towards his face.

Then he screamed.

Valjean barely reigned himself in time to casually note the way the man's eyes twisted with blood as they protruded from his flaccid face. His slack mouth dribbled with spittle and a twinge of pink.

Instantly Valjean threw the man away from himself, disgusted. The man fell upon the cobbles like a discarded fish, wrapped in cheap finery.

He fanatically swiped at his filthy hands, but the pungent marinade of cowardice remained on his skin. They shook as he backed away from the still body. The prostitute was gone.

He was abandoned, swamped in a mire of his own cast-off violence.

So overwhelmed by the enormity of his latent viciousness, he did not hear the determined clomp of boots wading through the mist.

When his name was called, it was simply buffeted away.

Suddenly, a presence grasped his shoulder and drew him backwards.

"Come with me."

Valjean's eyes widened when it encountered the intense gaze of Inspector Javert. The hand firmed and Valjean shivered.

The Inspector did not withdraw.

He submitted, shoulders loosening.

"Take the man to the closest precinct and snap to!" commanded Javert, indicating the fallen man with a jerk of his head. Javert shot his three officers a glance.

"Where's the fiacre?"

A streetlamp stammered as it cast its feeble light. His colleagues looked around the alley, as if the hackney would instantly appear in the gloom.

"Dismissed?" Javert's fingers tapped upon Valjean's shoulder. He flinched, until he comprehended that Javert was not addressing him.

"How did you manage yourselves before? You do not dismiss a hansom when you're planning on apprehending a fugitive! Hell, a witness even!"

He snapped his fingers at the closest sergeant.

"You! Go hail a cab and be quick about it."

While the sergeant cut through the drizzle, Valjean and the others remained still, awaiting further instruction.

"The two of you, scour the area for the woman. We cannot charge anyone justly without her testimony."

While the taller of the pair rushed to heed Javert's bidding, the shorter one tramped up to Javert. He thrust his face upwards, squinting through thin veil of dingy sulphur light. Javert's lip curled.

"So sir, what are _you_ going to do?" questioned the younger man.

Javert shifted his stance, transferring weight to his other foot.

"Ah, _Sergeant_ Grosz, as for me," stated Javert, hand still restraining Valjean's shoulder. "I shall be questioning this particular witness."

Javert bowed forward slightly, like a wolf emerging from the underbrush, whiskers coated in topaz droplets. He grinned.

A puddle splashed Grosz's trouser leg as he retreated.

"I suggest you hop to your duty, Sergeant," said Javert, teeth flashing with every syllable.

The man stood for a second, entire face scrunched up before he stomped off to follow orders. He threw one sullen glance back before becoming swallowed in the dark.

The thump of feet resounded, growing fainter until it was gone.

"Valjean."

Valjean's head spun around. He rolled his shoulders, easily dislodging the grip of Inspector Javert. The imposing figure of dark grey fractured the undulating mist as his hand was instantly hidden away in the depths of his voluminous triple-caped coat. Two pale eyes flicked a glance. Valjean understood. Silhouetted in the lambent light, Javert turned and began walking away into the darker portion of the street.

As a fiacre rolled to a stop at the opposite end of the street, Valjean scurried to catch up with the Inspector's long strides. The clipped tones of the sergeant and the grunting of the driver as they lifted the body removed any desire Valjean had to look back.

Following Javert, he noticed that his coat was new and of high quality unlike his standard issue from Montreuil-sur-Mer. Droplets merely beaded upon the fine wool and was cast aside with every rustle of the thick fabric.

Valjean frowned. This was not the same coat from before. Was the fire damage from the Gorbeau tenement that great?

"This way, Valjean," indicated the Inspector, hands still hidden as he stood in front of a bar. Its windows dredged up some resemblance of light onto the drenched street. Valjean stepped forward into the light, and pulled open the door.

Once inside, Javert brushed past him and planted himself in the corner near the front window. Valjean manoeuvred himself around two half empty tables and a waitress that was bussing one of them. Though in the front, it was actually one of the more private of areas, as it was protected by the hewn bar to the left and was pushed up against a wall and the window. Their only neighbouring tabletop was full of empty glasses and chipped dinnerware.

Valjean tentatively perched himself in one of the seats, directly opposite of Javert. The other free seat housed his well-known hat. He clutched his knees, the damp material bunching between his fingers. He regarded the crumbs trapped within the grooves on the table, but every couple of seconds, he would glance upwards at Javert who watched him as if he would try and escape.

It was only when the waitress stopped by that the Inspector ceased his perusal of Valjean.

"Two pints, please," signalled Javert.

"I don't drink."

"Well, according to my wallet you do." He reached inside the layers of quality wool and placed a couple of coins into the woman's outstretched hand. The woman left without questioning either of the two men of their preferences.

Despite the raucous laughter frothing in the furthest corner, the atmosphere was casual for midnight revelry. A couple of men chattered animatedly at the bar, hands wrapped around beading glasses of golden liquid. Further down a loner snoozed, his head resting peacefully on the wood.

Two mugs of ale clanked down, spewing droplets and spotting the wood grain. Valjean observed Javert pluck a lemon wedge from the woman's hand and squeeze it into his drink. He stared uncomprehendingly as the pale juice mingled into the alcohol. A few seeds splashed into it as well before the wedge was banished to the edge of the table.

Javert brought the mug to lips and drank deeply, his throat working around the liquid. He caught Valjean watching him, raised a brow and placed his mug back on the table.

"If you wanted lemon too, you should have asked, Valjean." Javert wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Not all of us can read minds."

Jolted from his reverie, Valjean made a grab for his ale, dragging it across the table. Both of his hands wrapped themselves around the glass.

"Look Javert, I don't understand. Why am I here?" asked Valjean, thumbs running across the rim of his glass.

Javert pinched the bridge of his nose while expelling a rush of air. He looked as if he bit the lemon rather than squeezed it into his ale.

"Valjean, you nearly caved a guy's face in. I cannot let you go traipsing about town in the state you are in now."

The tankard in Valjean's hand began to quake, the condensation dripping over his fingers. He clenched his eyes, trying to hold back the fetid memories that began to chisel their way back into his mind.

With one hand, he slugged the drink upwards and guzzled it.

"Be careful, Valjean! You're of no use to me if you knock yourself out as well."

Javert's hands disappeared under the table.

"Just tell me exactly what happened tonight," he stated, before leaning back, diminishing his stature.

Valjean fiddled with his half-empty tankard, tracing the imperfect whorls. Then he sighed.

"It's just…I knocked into the b—the man and he attacked, but that's not what it was."

He stared at the glass as it wept upon the table.

"He just…"Valjean looked up, trying to ground his thoughts. Frightened faces swam through his mind like a morass of drowned bodies: the fallen woman melded and dissolved with her assailant into chimera of intermingled terror. A third one entered the crucible.

He snapped his face upwards. The Inspector's face was utterly neutral.

"He hurt her, Javert."

He swallowed. "And I…I guess I just snapped."

Valjean's head bowed, his long hair dragging through the warped coils of wood grain.

He discarded a breath. "Please just let me be."

"Valjean, look at me. I am not judging you; it is not my place. I am merely here to collect a statement, drop you home, and be on my merry way. So I will need a bit more information than what you have provided thus far."

Javert's voice remained measured throughout, a standardized cadence. "Understood?"

"Yes, but why aren't we at the precinct with the other man?"

Javert took a sip of his ale before regarding the obsidian window. The streaky glass enticed the pair with a softer and more ambiguous image of the Inspector, underlain with notes of alizarin.

"Sometimes, it's easier elsewhere."

Then he draped an arm across the back of the ladder-back chair, looking completely at ease despite the crisp formality of his uniform.

They slipped into a quiet reverie in which each regarded the other. Javert gestured to the serving girl with a flick of his wrist, and asked for a refill on the ale.

Valjean settled in to the hardback chair, sliding backwards into a more comfortable position. The room hummed with dull warmth from idle chatter and relaxed bodies. His foot knocked into something under the table, which promptly removed itself.

"Sorry."

"No need."

"So, is that it? In regards to the man?"

"Yes," replied Valjean. "I just couldn't stand by and let him continue to beat the poor woman, so I grabbed him."

He hung his head. "I didn't mean to return the favour."

"Technically you did not," interjected Javert. "You restrained yourself. The poor guy pretty much knocked himself out with terror."

"God forbid, I only wish to be left alone," admitted Valjean, rubbing his forehead.

"That's hard Valjean, especially in a city such as Paris. People are always fascinated by each other and more so when it's a newcomer. You cannot keep running," Javert braced an elbow on the table, seating himself sideways. "People are the most numerous and incalculable of obstacles on this earth."

Javert drew a breath and reached for his ale. "Given that, you know that we will have our first parole meeting tomorrow."

"Please don't remind me."

Javert paused in his drinking, shards of blue peering over the rim. He finished and carefully placed the glass on the table.

"It's that disagreeable, hmm?" The corners of his mouth hitched upwards.

"Look Javert," addressed Valjean to the table. "I'm starting a new life and I want to live in peace."

His throat dug past a fresh clog of words. "And I know you are a good and honest man."

Valjean consulted his mug. Foam obscured his face in the yellow liquid.

"But you are also a reminder of something I wish to forget."

Clinking glasses and the shuffling of disinterested bodies punctuated the silence, aggravating it. Valjean fidgeted under Javert's sidelong glance, one intense eye fixed upon him.

Then Javert straightened, pushing his tankard to the side. His massive hands clamped the edge of the table.

"Well Valjean, you have been most helpful tonight. And with that, I take my leave."

Javert rose, brushed his coat, and threw some francs upon the table.

"I wouldn't want you to have some unpleasant recollections."

He placed his hat upon his head, sealing off his expression and left.


	9. 9-Our Trenches Drawn

Jean Valjean felt wretched.

His gut was clenched taut, every step binding that knot tighter like a chain being wound.

Above, jagged tendrils of clouds warped and heaved in massive swells. Through a fracture in the sky, engorged droplets spewed forth, pummelling the city below with a glistening salve. Valjean's hands grasped his coat labels shut in an attempt to seal out the wetness.

Barrelling down the twisting avenues and streets, he barely noticed the way his feet found every possible pool of water.

In leaving the Rue Plumet, Valjean had sought to escape his perfidious thoughts. Instead they became more convoluted. He had simultaneously had his perspective of the Inspector both substantiated and damaged further within two hours.

The twin doors of iron emerged from the gloom and Valjean quickly unlocked the gate, the squeak a welcome peal in the silence. He checked the security of the lock before picking his way through the slick lawn. He stamped up the stairs, dislodging clots of mud from his soles.

Entering the small vestibule, he secured the door and kicked off his shoes, leaving the drenched articles as they were. Then Valjean balanced himself on the receiving table, pulling the soaked cotton stockings off his feet. He hung his coat and socks on the coatrack before heading upstairs.

He did not want to endanger Cosette with wet floors come morning.

He walked quietly to Cosette's bedchamber. A quick glimpse revealed a slumbering child curled up, blanket swaddled around her form with minimum fuss. The multipaned window opposite shimmered with backlight droplets. Silver light threaded through her scattered strands of hair and weaved through the cream coverlet. Reassured, he shut the door.

Padding slowly to his own chamber, he left the door slightly ajar as he entered it. Without divesting himself of his damp garments, he threw himself on the bed. His thoughts immediately returned, warring within his head as he lay there. Seeking relief, he massaged his temples until the darkened room flashed with a multitude of grey spots.

Valjean had almost regressed back to that savage bestial nature cultivated in Toulon. That impulse to inflict harm became a part of Valjean's very essence through prison rigor. Each additional year further fused that instinct into something so ravaging and vicious Valjean no longer thought of it as a separate entity.

When Valjean met the Bishop of Digne, the man brought this hideousness to light; he revealed the entangling mess that his soul had become. A disgusting mess of retaliation and inhuman hate had rooted itself around his heart, dispelling all sense of compassion.

The Bishop extended his benevolence and removed Valjean from the embittering darkness. _Never forget that you have promised me to use this silver to become an honest man_, he told Valjean. Yet despite this he fell, and repented. How difficult the preservation of a tainted soul!

Afterwards, Valjean took the Bishop to heart, emulating his goodness the best he was able. He had fought to disintegrate that side of him through his pious efforts in Montreuil-sur-Mer.

But to suddenly realize what he thought vanquished for good was in fact dormant? The idea of housing this viciousness indefinitely, with no means of extraditing it frightened Valjean immensely.

He shuddered.

The timely arrival of Javert upon tonight's transgression interfered in the relapse of Valjean's character. His steady hand and commanding voice became a bulwark from that horrible urge that engulfed his mind. That firm presence had removed him from the grip of madness and returned him whole.

He did not understand what it meant.

He only understood that he created a misunderstanding. Guilt washed over him.

Swiping wet hair off of his drying face, he grimaced as he remembered the way Javert threw the coins onto the table. The metal clanged together and cried sharply when it rolled onto the floor. But Valjean had ignored the money. There was something off about the rigidity of Javert's stance that echoed though the layers of cloth. It had Valjean wanting to call Javert back and apologize.

Only he did not know why.

So he had left, leaving an extra coin on the table, not bothering to pick up the fallen piece.

Valjean covered his eyes with the back of his hand.

Could this be salvaged? Or was their association was going to remain strained due to their shared past?

Besides the Bishop, Javert was the only person that knew about Valjean's past, perhaps even more so. That thread that lay between them was something that both repelled and fascinated him. Strangely enough, it wasn't something he wanted to lose, but wasn't something that he actively wanted either.

If Valjean could start anew once again, couldn't he extend that same ideal that towards his association with Javert?

Yes, Javert was the one who sent him to prison, apprehending him twice. But from his own lips, he admitted to Javert being an honest and trustworthy man. Albeit too embroiled in his work and duty but nevertheless a good man.

He lay upon the sheets, imbibing this particular thought. The more he did so, the more it strengthened his resolve.

He needed to rectify his mistake made in regards to Javert.

Determination pervaded his limbs, spurring him into action. Though it was still dark, the atmosphere had the tactile expectancy of the upcoming dawn. A few birds tittered awake, rustling in the row of cypress outside his window.

He shucked off this clammy clothing and hung it over the open doors of his armoire. His undergarments thankfully were dry, so he donned on some fresh shirtsleeves and trousers then made his way downstairs to the kitchen.

The banked fire in the grate was particularly recalcitrant this morning. It stubbornly refused to ignite in spite of Valjean's rigorous poking. Sighing, he moved aside the lingering embers and threw on a couple of fresh logs. Pushing the embers back, he gathered a bit of brush and twig and covered the pile. He blew on it, breathing life back into the stove as it ate feverishly at his offering.

Satisfied, Valjean began puttering around the kitchen preparing breakfast. He took down a tan ceramic pot and set it upon the single timber table. Then he retrieved a set of wooden spoons from another pot and a couple of bowls to complete the small tableau.

The sun rose upon a bed of tended marigolds as he climbed the stone stairs leading out of the underground kitchen. He retrieved a pot of fresh water from the rain barrel outside, careful not to spill any. His bare feet became awash in leftover rain and bits of grass clung to his skin.

Returning, he set the cast iron pot on the stove, and settled at the small dining table. A lone book rested off to the side. Reaching for _Confessions_, he turned to an ear marked page. When the water came to boiling, he brought the ceramic pot and a wooden spoon with him. Scooping up a heaped spoonful of oats, he sprinkled them into the clear spume, gradually turning it murky. When finished, the ceramic was returned to the cupboard, and his book immediately took the spot it had left. Valjean alternated between reading his book and stirring the bubbling porridge.

Light titillated through the open shutters and warmed the small kitchen, dissolving the table in honey when Cosette finally skipped into the kitchen. Like any faithful servant, Catherine came quietly in tow.

She sat on the wooden bench, hands folded primly in her lap while Valjean replaced the book. He set to pouring the steaming mixture into the bowls, Cosette's first and then his own. Once he submerged the scolding pot into the wash bucket, he took his seat next to Cosette upon the bench. Together they said their prayers before attending to their meal.

As always Valjean finished first, trained early not to linger over his food.

Bracing his elbows on the table, he fisted his hands together and laid his head on them. Cosette prattled and bounced Catherine on her knee, while trying to eat at the same time. Bits of oatmeal plopped on the table. Wordlessly, he passed her a rag and resumed his stance.

"Cosette."

She looked up from where she was wiping the table. "Yes Father?"

"You know how we have to go to the police station every week?"

"Yes." She frowned as she looked down, considering. Cosette looked back at Valjean. "Are we going today?"

"I will, but you will stay here." Cosette's back eased a bit and she stopped wiping the table.

"Like the first time?"

"Yes, Cosette, like the first time," affirmed Valjean, taking the soiled cloth. "You remember my instructions?"

"Don't open the door except for three sharp knocks and to stay away from the window." She tugged at Valjean's billowy shirtsleeve. "Is that right?"

Valjean smiled, and tucked a loose strand behind her ear. "Oh, Cosette, you remember well."

Cosette beamed in response and resumed her consumption of the porridge, Catherine at rest upon her knees.

* * *

A different sort of atmosphere pervaded the station upon the Place du Chatelet than Valjean's previous visits. It was restless, like a rock tossed into a still water. It instantly set Valjean on the alert.

Physically, everything was exactly the same. Officers and civilians milled about, scattering bits of conversation. The windows flanking the station's entrance were half open, inviting in a slight breeze laced with extracts of Parisian life. As usual, his entry sparked more hushed murmuring and blatant stares his way, but it seemed another emotion triggered their interest this time.

The customary front desk sergeant was at his post attending to his moustached face, completely uninterested in the goings-on around him. He didn't bother to acknowledge Valjean when he walked up to the desk for his pass. The man turned, deigning Valjean with an apathetic greeting. However, when the man looked Valjean in the face, his features became shuttered. His eyes skittered elsewhere.

A barely legible pass was thrust at him. When Valjean reached for the slip of paper, the man quickly seemed to recoil, and the paper feel from his grasp. Valjean stooped to pick it up and quit the area, turning down the familiar corridor. He was ill at ease with the man's strange behaviour. It was as if he was afraid of him, but Valjean never seen the man before.

Jean Valjean hurried to Javert's office, shaking himself of all extraneous thoughts. He reached the seventh door down the corridor and slowed his pace before stopping. Habitually, he raised a hand to knock before he saw that the door was ajar. Inside, Javert was bracketed by two completely opened windows. The paned glass cascaded morning sunlight on the worn hardwood. Its shutters were thrust out, amplifying the noisy Paris street below.

Meanwhile, Javert was engrossed in a faded law book, lips reading back the text silently. He stopped and slowly turned the yellowing page, grasping the corner and flipping it aside.

Valjean shifted his weight onto his other foot, uncertain on how to proceed. That tiny shuffle uprooted Javert from his reverie, snapping his focus to the entranceway. Upon seeing Valjean he stepped back, towards the window. His eyes were flinty and hard, though the rest of his face remained impassive.

"Are you daft, Valjean?" said Javert, returning to the book and addressing it instead.

Valjean remained in the doorway.

"What do you mean?"

Javert snapped the book shut, and laid it on the desk with both hands. He took a breath, shoulders straightening before he removed himself from the cluttered tabletop. He turned to Valjean, bare clad arms relaxed at his sides.

"Why are you here?" Javert asked. His eyes didn't quite reach Valjean's face. "Was I mistaken in my assumption that the ex-convict would rather not see his arresting officer?" His tone had remained even, though with the last word his eyes snapped straight to Valjean's own. It seemed to Valjean that the sunlight rippled with the force of it.

Valjean was unsurprised. Javert cut straight to the matter. No pre-emptive morning salutations or hedging around the uncomfortable topic. Valjean ruffled the back of his head.

He then took a step forward, hand out in supplication.

"I wanted to thank you for your help last night—"

"No need."

His arm fell back to his body. Hackles raised, Valjean was ready to snap back a sour retort, but a slight movement caught his eye.

Javert curled his hand into a fist, and slowly uncurled it. He kept repeating the procedure. His face remained carefully bland. It skewered Valjean.

Valjean put a hand on his face and rubbed his eye and temple.

"Javert, about last night-I won't mind meeting with you every week." Valjean hesitated as Javert crossed his arms in response. "But if you and I have to work together for the next year, I don't want to come to see it as an unpleasant task."

"Somehow I have a hard time believing you, Valjean," countered Javert. "You are the one who slapped that gallant speech at me—what was it?" He tapped his chin, and twisted his lips. "Ah, yes, that's it; I'm a _'reminder of something you wish to forget'_. Like Christ's own burden."

Valjean flinched. Javert smirked at his discomfiture. Valjean removed his eyes elsewhere, playing with his fingers.

"Am I not correct?"

Valjean sighed, though he still did not look at the Inspector.

"As always. But Javert, I didn't personally mean you—it's just—"He shoved a fist to his forehead to dam the overflow of incoherent emotions and mismatched thoughts.

He glanced around the office for a foothold. Orderly shelves of books crowded the bookcases, some resting supine upon their brothers. The bright square of light created by the window reflected poorly on the wooden floor. The lone island that was the Inspector's desk was inhabited by an absurd chaos of parchment, papers bundled in twine, and coffee cups perched at various intervals. Returning back to the stiff, questioning stance of Inspector Javert quietly drumming his fingers on his thin arms, Valjean took a breath and resumed:

"Those are not pleasant memories for me, Javert. You have to understand that. The excitement of my arrest, the betrayal of the people I helped, near-abandonment of my principles—"Javert loosened his grip upon his arms—" and the sudden death of Fantine. They are all things I do not wish to dwell on."

While lost in the hazy memories of that horrid night, Valjean barely registered Javert's arms slowly peel themselves apart to dangle loosely at his sides. The fingers curled and uncurled around some intangible object.

Javert closed his eyes. "God, I need an anodyne...or more coffee."

A team of fingers wandered his desk, arriving at a ceramic mug. The tips brushed against the glazed exterior, shifting it until they were able to grab the handle and make a quick getaway. Armed with their prize, they returned to the Inspector, who merely put it off to the side with a disappointed sigh.

"Damn, it's empty."

Javert pinched the bridge of his nose and his brows converged, emphasizing his pained look. Valjean noticed the tiredness that crept underneath his closed lids and he took another step forward.

"Javert, how long have you been awake?"

"None of your business."

Valjean quickly processed the timeline from between his encounter last night with the drunken attacker, and this morning. It was only 10 AM, and though the Inspector was in his shirtsleeves and not his immaculate uniform, its rumpled and distressed state bespoke of a long and restless night.

Valjean squinted.

Why, there was even a dun-coloured stain clutching his shirtfront!

"You didn't sleep at all last night, did you?" said Valjean in disbelief.

"Congratulations. Maybe they should hire you in lieu of Grosz if you managed to come up with that."

Not letting the matter drop, Valjean continued, ignoring the scathing eyes currently trained upon him, a wary hound before a stranger. "Even I understand how shifts work, Javert. You should have been able to get some sleep, even after our encounter."

Javert gathered the abandoned law book and shoved into a dusty crevice on the flanking wall shelf. Dust spewed forth, sprinkling the Inspector with iridescent dust motes.

"Valjean, when there's work to be done, there's work to be done. You know this. You certainly commented on it a couple of times in Montreuil-sur-Mer."

"Yes, but that was a small town. Surely there are other officers that the task can be delegated to once your shift is over?"

Javert shot Valjean a withering glance.

"Not when my name, my actions, and my signature are involved."

Javert returned to his desk and snapped the loose papers together in orderly piles. Ignoring Valjean, he continued to build his barricade of parchments and written words. Despite the pressing atmosphere of mutual frustration, Valjean punched through with a single statement:

"Let's go."

Javert screwed his face, still stacking the papers.

"Valjean, what are you talking about? You're making absolutely no sense."

"If you have to work, there's no changing that. But I think it will be beneficial for the both of us if you were awake."

Valjean took another step forward until he was standing in front of the desk, his plain waistcoat brushing the edge.

"So let's go and get some coffee or whatever you need presently."

Valjean waved the air between them, looking off to his left. When Javert didn't immediately rebuke his suggestion, he looked back.

The Inspector eyed him as if he just admitted to carrying a concealed weapon. "You're asking me, to go with you—for coffee?" asked Javert.

"Yes," Valjean confirmed, right arm brushing a precarious stack as it reached to rub his bicep. The papers teetered and Javert's hiss was immediate.

"Watch yourself, please. We are all not endowed with unparalleled strength, so it would be nice if you could rein that in."

Valjean tried to extricate himself from the vicinity of Javert's desk, but not before he bumped the corner pile. The papers skittered across the table.

Javert dumped the forgotten papers from his hands in his chair so he could wrangle with the mess.

"Now you've disrupted my case files!" He slapped away Valjean's attempts at help. "You've mixed together the evidence."

"How so? These are all the same."

"What do you mean the same? These are my files; I know which is which."

"But these are penned by the same hand," remarked Valjean, placing a letter and an envelope side-by-side on the cluttered desk.

At the bottom of the letter was an ending to a sentence: "_my dearest Monsieur Coypel_." However, the very distinct and elegantly curved '_M_' stood out from the cramped scrawl of the author's handwriting. Nowhere else in this letter existed a capital '_M_'. On the envelope opposite, addressed to the infamous "_Madame Vuillard_" existed the same species of lettering.

Rapidly shuffling through his burgeoning pile of notes, evidence, observations , and reports, Javert pinched out a couple of folded letters. They released a small wisp of feminine fragrance into the air, causing Javert to sneeze into his shoulder.

"God bless you," responded Valjean.

"I think He already did," stated Javert, fingers tracing the strings of similar handwriting. Upon reaching a capitol 'M' within the text, he stopped and compared with the original. Then he snatched the document, placing it into a growing pile. A feverish thrill racked his body when he reached the last note.

He motioned Valjean closer. "See here!"

When Valjean hesitated, Javert snatched his arm and pulled him over to the desk. He allowed Valjean to examine the very top of the document, as he covered the rest with his broad hand. At the very top, Valjean read the first line, "Your dearest Michel was a sweet thing, and today he—"

The curves swirled languorously on the page; same as the previous two. A bitter aftertaste eased onto Valjean's tongue as the crisp white paper began radiating a faint impression of odious intent.

"I can't believe it," breathed Javert, eyes flicking between the three documents. "I had these together for two weeks, and never saw the connection."

While standing transfixed by the slips of paper, Javert had not moved. One hand remained braced on the table as Javert concentrated on the papers before him. The other was lightly wrapped around Valjean's exposed wrist. The rasping slide of Javert's palm tugged lightly at the sparse hairs of his own hand. The way it tightened and loosened as the Inspector analysed the handwriting with a discerning eye and silently moving lips caused Valjean to tug his hand back slightly.

Meeting with some resistance, Valjean called Javert's name. Without looking up, Javert released Valjean and gripped on the edge of the desk, crossing his ankles as he did so. His foot tapped against the floor as he flipped through more of the letters, completely disregarding Valjean's presence.

"Hmm...yes. I wonder." The wad of letters and other extraneous papers were tossed into his desk chair. The remaining few were shuffled and spread onto the plateau of books, like a dealer's hand.

Javert straightened back and covered his mouth with a fist, his left arm wrapped about his middle. Humming slightly, his brows furrowed as his eyes darted between two letters and two official reports.

"Knocking a bunch of inquiries out at once—yes, a plan. Absolutely. He should have some information, or at the very least, be able to recognize this handwriting. I wonder if Alain will be at his post today-"Javert scratched his sideburns, tufting them out—"No, it's Friday. Damn."

Gathering up the parcel of documents, Javert swept past Valjean and exited the door, leaving him alone in the office.

Trying to make sense of the situation, Valjean remained a moment, before taking his leave. He noticed that Javert's office like his own as Mayor: devoid of any belongings that could reveal any secrets.

Outside the threshold, he nearly bumped into Javert, who scowled and promptly turned around. Valjean trailed after his retreating figure as it entered a room to his left. When Valjean made an attempt to enter as well, Javert shooed him out and had him sit in a chair in the hall, a little ways down.

Settling himself into the creaking wood, he waited. Though the door was shut, he could hear thrilled murmurs issuing forth from the room. He wondered about the connection between the writings, but since Javert was not forthcoming with any details, he had nothing to build off of.

Instead Valjean wondered what prompted him to invite Javert to coffee. Even as Mayor, he never ate out, preferring to ensconce himself in the privacy of his home. But Javert had been correct: you cannot live without the obstacles and interference of other people.

Funnily enough, Javert was the one that occupied this role more often than not.

Despite the chasm between them, he realized knew Javert more than anyone else from his life. But as he was learning, even that wasn't much at all.

"Rough night, eh?"

Valjean jerked his head upwards at the familiar voice fastened with inappropriate humour. The chiselled face of Sergeant Ary Baudot smiled devilishly at him, stained teeth matching his swarthy visage. Valjean interlaced his fingers and rested his forearms on his thighs, hands hanging in between his legs.

Without any invitation, Baudot tossed his body into the spare chair and slumped backwards. He folded his arms behind his head and proceeded to barricade the passageway with his stretched out legs.

"You certainly did a number on that poor sap last night didn't you? And to think, all he wanted to do was to have a go around with a whore! Didn't expect you to show up, did he?"

Valjean grimaced and shot Baudot a pained look.

"Sergeant Baudot, how do you know about that?"

"Oh, I'm sorry old chap. I know you don't like this sort of thing, but it was the most exciting incident to grace this dismal precinct since the Handel Coypel kidnapping. Though I think this takes the cake; we never had such an angry and frustrated man hurl himself around the floor before. I'm not sure whether he was upset at not obtaining his game for the night, or the loss of this dignity. The stench of fear was quite unmistakable." Baudot's laugh rumbled his boxy frame. "We had to let him clean up, more for our sakes than his."

Horrified, Valjean dropped his gaze back to his hands as they latched onto his distressed linen trousers.

"Don't worry, I was the reporting officer last night, so you can assure yourself that not everyone will be spinning your dirty laundry about the town."

He cast Valjean a quick glance, squinted and blew a lock of his hair off his forehead.

"And of course, with Javert being the man who found you, nothing will leave this precinct except the goddamned facts."

Staring at the wall opposite, he brooded. Not looking at Valjean, he asked: "So, do you want to tell me what happened?"

When Valjean did not respond, the man continued, peering at him sidelong from pointed eyes.

"Javert wasn't exactly forthcoming with the specifics, so if you would like to make sure your entire story is covered, you can always tell me. As your previous officer, I want to make sure you are treated right."

Though the words seemed innocuous enough, Valjean couldn't prevent an involuntary shudder. After years in the Bagne, Valjean knew all about officer rivalries.

Down the hall, excited banter heralded the arrival of Javert. He backed out of the room still addressing the occupant. Gripping the door frame, he stuck his head inwards to deliver one last quip. An ungainly guffaw shot from the entrance before Javert shut the door.

He strode over to Valjean, a small envelope in his hand. When Baudot waved at Javert, he froze.

An elusive look flitted across Javert's face; Valjean had no idea what it was. He only caught this particular emotion once before, but he gave up trying to remember precisely when he encountered it.

Javert stared, fixing his eyes upon Baubot, who simply smirked in response. Two pale spots of colour dotted Officer Baudot's sunken cheeks even as he cocked his brow in challenge.

Resuming his habitual mantle of sententious solemnity, Javert addressed Valjean without once looking his way.

"We're going Valjean. We will need to leave before the would-be lawyers and diplomats swamp the place."

Javert quit the area without waiting for a response. Baubot shrugged his shoulders with a lopsided grin as if to say, "You see what I mean?" Javert's antics, though exasperating, were something Valjean had been conditioned to.

Valjean got up out of the chair and followed Javert past his office.

"Don't you need to go back and retrieve your coat?" questioned Valjean, looking back down the hall.

"No. Commonality is what is required for today."

Stomping towards the front Javert left, with Valjean dogging his heels.


	10. 10- Le Seul Homme son Piste

Javert and Valjean did not speak during their stroll. Instead, they paid more attention to the growing influx of people and lively shop fronts. Valjean found it mesmerizing just how much activity could be contained in one block of Paris, compared to the entire town of Montreuil-sur-Mer.

He wondered vaguely if anyone visiting Paris for the first time would marvel at it as he did.

Valjean cast a glance in Javert's direction.

Bereft of his trademark coat, the man had his chin tucked downwards, cushioned by his black cravat. Those grey-blue eyes, though pinioned to the path in from of them, still assessed every person and shop they passed.

Flower carts full of hyacinths and roses rolled past, children and gentlemen parting to make way. Specialty shops of all kinds harked their wares from prized family stewed jams to pickled vegetables in ceramic vessels.

They remained silent as they walked down the sloping cobbled path. They made their way towards the bustling café at the end of the crowded lane. As Javert expected, it was full of young men with the occasional female lending a burst of tingling laughter. Despite the rainstorm, many patrons took to the outside, mingling about under the cloth awnings.

They remained off to the side of the stone building while a large party of young beaus and their sweethearts exited the main entrance.

A wooden placard hung above the door by two polished brass rings attached to a large carved dowel. It swung in the breeze, perfectly centred. Painted on the signboard was a silhouette of a traveling man in crisp charcoal brushwork. One hand was confidently thrust out, cane in hand. His feet were fastened to a single flowing line that swirled out from under him to encircle the words, _Le Seul Homme son Piste. _

Valjean turned towards the Inspector.

"Why is it named that? It's a very unusual title for a café."

Javert looked up at the sign. "Ah. The owner here, despite his rugged looks and obvious flair for cuisine, remains in a constant state of bachelorhood."

"It seems easier to use '_célibataire_ _son piste'_ rather," said Valjean.

"Then it would imply something that is not true. Bachelor he is, but celibate? Not so much."

Valjean widened his eyes a fraction and rubbed the back of his head. He always thought it uncanny at how much information Javert knew about other people.

Once the last of the dregs filtered through the café, Javert strode forward. His hand automatically reached out for the door while the other wavered in the vicinity of his breast.

All of a sudden he turned abruptly, nearly colliding with Valjean. Startled, Valjean stood by as Javert began marching back up the street, boots tapping a steady rhythm.

Valjean jogged to catch up with Javert as people removed themselves from his trajectory.

"Javert, what are you doing?"

"I knew my coat was important," he answered. Confused, Valjean waited for Javert to explain himself further, but apparently that was clarification enough. It wasn't until Valjean shoved his hand into his own coat pocket that he realized exactly what Javert meant.

"I'll pay, Javert. There is no need to go back, not when we are already here and I am able."

"Like hell you will. I am not your charity case."

"It is not charity! I'm merely returning the favour from last night. It isn't fair that you paid for us both there—"

"That was strictly business related," cut Javert, dismissing the statement with a slice of his hand. He kept up his brisk pace despite the mild slope and almost reached the curb on the main thoroughfare. Valjean in a spurt of frustration reached out and pulled Javert back, fingers clutching the loose material of his shirtsleeve.

Javert stood, staring out across the street for a moment, while Valjean caught his breath beside him. He batted Valjean's hand with his envelope.

"Unhand me, Valjean. Stop being obtuse."

Valjean rubbed his eyes with his free hand. "Let's be reasonable. I am not going to presume your schedule, but it would be simpler if I paid for the both of us."

Javert immediately tightened, crossing his arms. He was about to retort, but Valjean held out his hand.

"It took us a quarter of an hour to get here, and if you go back, we will essentially spend an extra thirty minutes of our time in travel. I cannot stay longer than I need to. I must return to Cosette by one."

Javert glanced at Valjean. Then he spun around, breaking free of Valjean's loose grip. They returned again to the café, Javert tossing open the door. Valjean lagging behind, caught it before it completely shut and was relieved to note that Javert was easy to spot in the crowded establishment. His tall frame accented by his white shirt, took up a small table in the back near the bar, which was full of customers happily downing their wares.

Valjean picked his way past tables leaden with empty tin pints and plates plastered with sauces. Others were bolstered with loud men on their break, swapping news and stories. When Valjean finally reached their table, he planted himself opposite of Javert. He paid no heed.

Until a small rumble issued forth from under the table.

Javert gave no sign of a response to the noise, save for a slight grimace.

Valjean blinked as he tried to wrap his head around the strange sound of Javert's appetite.

"Coffee only," said Javert, as he pulled at his whiskers.

Valjean looked around the room before addressing Javert fully, looking him in the eye.

"Look, Javert. You obviously need food and you paid for me last night," reasoned Valjean, with a bit of Madeleine's authority solidifying the statement. He rested his arm on the table and traced the wood. "Also, I cannot abide eating when another is not."

Javert huffed, nostrils flaring.

"How noble of you."

Javert then called to a waiter currently bussing a table in the back of the café, near the bar. Upon hearing Javert's voice, he held up a finger and resumed his task. He gathered the multitude of dishes into a massive pile, each sitting upon the other precariously. Yet he kept piling more on top. Taking his load, he walked confidently to the back and returned almost instantaneously.

The young man was lithe, moving nimbly between the tables and avoiding jostling elbows and emptying chairs with ease. His long, unfashionable hair was pulled back into a short queue like a bobtail, secured tightly with a length of slim ribbon. He stopped to converse with a balding patron near one of the open windows, and the sunlight highlighted his toffee coloured hair.

Though he was obviously a working class man, his clothes were well cared for and spotless. They fit his body as if it was sewn for that exact purpose.

To call him a dandy would have been an insult; he had none of that idleness and self-absorbency that clouded their persona.

Javert ordered lunch and coffee for them both, causing their waiter's trimmed eyebrows to leap upwards.

"Ah, Monsieur Javert!" exclaimed the young man, voice lacking the throatiness of maturity. "You're actually going to eat? What's the occasion? Are you finally taking up Monsieur Cocteau's offer?"

"Nothing of the sort."

The man rolled his eyes, planted a fist on his hip and leaned forward. "You stubborn ass. He only wants to repay you, you realize that?"

Javert merely relaxed back into his chair, looking around, bored.

"His café might be the best in all of Paris, but he already repaid me. I refuse any extra services he presumes I need."

"So then, why are you eating for once?"

"My associate and I are celebrating."

The waiter finally took notice of Valjean, smiled, and thrust out his hand. The young man's hands were small and fingers broad. Valjean took it in his own and shook it. It didn't escape Valjean how short and bitten the young man's nails were.

"Good afternoon, Monsieur. I am Almanzo Fréminet, but please call me by my first name. Anyone that comes in here with our dear Inspector is welcome, as he doesn't often bring guests."

A small _hmph_ issued forth from the scowling man.

"Pleased to meet you, Monsieur Almanzo, and thanks," replied Valjean giving a quick bow of his head. "My name is Jean Valjean."

He waited instinctively for the twist of condemnation to mar the lad's smooth features, but remarkably, he smiled. As if he genuinely was delighted at meeting him. Valjean responded in kind, though his was tinier and half-hidden behind his beard.

"So what's the celebration?"

Before Valjean could reply, Javert answered with a single word: "Correspondence."

Instantly, Almanzo's gregarious features arranged themselves into a mask of indifference. He shuffled a bit and rubbed his clean-shaven jaw.

"Ah. I take it that's the same from before?"

"Even better. Monsieur Valjean here noticed something interesting."

"Oh? That's intriguing in of itself," chuckled the young man.

Javert looked in askance, prompting Almanzo to finish.

He took a step back before responding with a massive grin: "I find it astonishing that you actually had decent help this time."

Despite Javert's glare, Valjean couldn't help the laughter that welled up and split forth in one puncturing admission.

After affirming their orders, Almanzo left, leaving the two men alone in an archipelago of crowded tables. Around them workers, a couple of milquetoasts, and a plethora of students, all engaged in a disordered blend of conversational topics. The students were the noisiest of the lot, slapping backs and inhaling food like ravenous ducks at a pond.

Minutes later, their waiter returned, wooden tray perched upon his thin arm. Quickly, he placed two mugs upon the stained wood tabletop.

A patch of sunlight hit the coffee cups, revealing the voluptuously curling steam. Javert and Valjean both reached for their respective cups, with Valjean scraping his across the table. Javert snatched his with one hand, large fingers containing the entire vessel. He cupped the ceramic with his other hand, and inhaled deeply.

A light touch brought his attention back to Almanzo, who was smiling while he held out the small tray.

"Would you like sugar and cream?"

Valjean looked back at Javert, one arm lying on the table. The other held the cup, pointer finger wedged through the small opening created by the handle, while he sipped at his brew.

Almanzo laughed. "I don't even ask him anymore; it would be ludicrous."

Nodding, Valjean accepted the courtesy.

"Thank you."

Valjean took the small pot of sugar, gingerly taking the teaspoon with his fingers. He scooped a small amount of the dusty granules and sprinkled them into his coffee evenly. The powder sat on top before dissolving into the ebony beverage. The cup clinked merrily with the ringing of metal as Valjean stirred the contents. The ceramic sugar pot was removed by the attentive Almanzo, and replaced with an earthenware pitcher of cream. Indulging himself, Valjean poured a thick stream, watching it swirl and mingle into the coffee, white froth clinging to the edges.

Placing his lips on the mug, he tested the brew with the tip of his tongue. The invisible steam warmed his face and he closed his eyes, finding the temperature ideal. He sipped slowly, savouring the bittersweet tang of expertly roasted beans and the soft interlay of smooth cream.

Valjean never realized how ordinary occurrences could evoke such experiences. Simple gratifications were something he had never accustomed himself to.

Almanzo left, gathering dirty earthenware off random tables as he made his way to the back. The pair fell into silence, Javert alternating between dragging long swigs of his coffee and scrutinizing their fellow Parisians. Though it looked as if Javert was glancing out the windows or drinking, the rapid movements of his eyes contradicted this assumption.

Almanzo returned promptly, two deep bowls filled with a thick broth. Submerged in the rich mixture was a variety of vegetables from spring peas to chunks of turnips. Valjean's mouth watered at the sensuous scent of beef and he immediately delved into the dish. Javert's mug was replaced with another steaming mug and a carved bread plate was set down before the young man left them to their repast.

Javert ate vivaciously, spoon scraping the bowl as it fought to hold as much stew as it could. Though he was expedient in his actions, he was also methodical, not spilling a single drop. They ate without adding any vocals to the surrounding commotion. Spoons clattered in bowls as one would reach for their coffee or the crusty bread would be broken for use in gathering leftover strains of broth.

Astoundingly, Javert finished before Valjean. He popped the last piece of sourdough in his mouth before moving his spotless bowl to the side. He braced an arm on the table, his tan skin a slight contrast to the honey-coloured pine.

Javert studied Valjean as he brought another spoon of the burgundy stew to his lips. Only when Valjean swallowed the bite did Javert address him:

"We are going to discuss the stipulation that requires you to hold a job while on parole."

"I understand," agreed Valjean before taking a bite of the warm bread.

Javert tapped his coffee mug as he held it aloft.

"Do you? The document states that it must be approved by your parole officer as well aid in the benefit of France's citizens. So you cannot simply choose any type of work."

"What will you have me do then? It's not as if it's easy to find work, much less for man such as I."

"Granted. But that is my job. I must approve it. So I will help you find the station best suited for you."

Valjean grimaced, chafing at how much responsibility was now in Javert's control.

"Will you stop, Valjean?" barked Javert, gesturing towards him. "If I wanted to dismiss you to some unpleasant task, I would have done so. I certainly wouldn't be wasting my time asking you questions."

"Now, we are both aware of your talents in regards to mayoral tasks, but I believe that isn't your strong suit. I believe it lies elsewhere." He leaned forward.

"What are your strengths Valjean?"

Valjean reclined backwards, eyes fixing on a point outside the window as he wondered over Javert's inquiry. He always pondered his areas of weakness in order to address them, and to diminish them. Never had he really considered his personal strengths before.

He swiped the last of the full-bodied broth with a bread crust and chewed fully before he addressed Javert.

"Toil."

Javert raised a brow, and Valjean continued, "I was a pruner from Faverolles, so I understand the earth. It was always a pleasant task to aid those in the fields at Montreuil-sur-Mer. Staying inside, surrounded by mounds of paperwork was never an easy or enjoyable task. But it helped people, so I did not complain.

I had a garden as Monsieur Madeleine, and I have one as Jean Valjean. It is my one talent that I favour above all else."

Javert nodded once, downed the rest of his coffee and placed the mug with his bowl.

"Understood. Taking what I have observed along with your own preferences, I shall investigate possible avenues of work."

Valjean nodded.

"Expect me to call before our next parole meeting. I want to finalize your transition before then so I can have the paperwork ready for Commissaire Lautrec."

Though the idea of Javert paying a visit to his place of residence was a disquieting and novel idea, he tramped the feelings down. Instead he asked: "What time of day can I expect you?"

Javert stared at him.

Seeing no answer forthcoming, Valjean explained, "So I am in residence when you call?"

Javert blinked. "Early afternoon then. I have no shifts during that time allotment."

Valjean relaxed into his chair and exhaled a breath. Despite Javert's direct speaking habits, navigating conversation outside of work topics with him was a daunting task.

Luckily Almanzo returned, giving a passing guest a friendly greeting before addressing their table.

"So, what's the order of the day, Monsieur Javert?"

Javert did not look up. "Samples."

"Ah, is this in regards to the ones that your proxy tasted? Poor lad was all flustered last week when he came to pick them up." Almanzo smiled devilishly. "That record boy is fun to tease."

"Keep to the task at hand," reprimanded Javert. He was still facing Valjean as if he was conversing with him instead, but it didn't stop Valjean from feeling the bite. Almanzo's ears reddened and his shoulders hunched like a turtle retreating into its shell.

"It is in regards to Monsieur Handel."

Almanzo's face tightened, brows puckering.

"I trust you understand my aversion for that man."

"And I trust you understand my aversion at seeing crime continuing unimpeded," said Javert, before draining his cup. "As well you know."

He then placed the empty mug into Almanzo's outstretched hand, sliding a slip of paper between his palm and the ceramic bottom with practiced ease.

"Also, please note me if you see Monsieur Alain in the district. I have not seen him, and it is urgent that I do so."

Almanzo took the mug along with their empty bowls, though he cast a sullen glance towards Javert. When he reached for Valjean's mug, he nonchalantly tucked the paper into his trouser pocket. Once all the dishes were nesting on his left arm, Almanzo passed over a different slip of paper to Javert. He immediately waved it off.

"He's paying."

"Oh." Almanzo straightened.

"Wait—"he threw a glance towards Valjean—"really?"

"Or so he says."

"That is most excellent! The manager won't have something to grumble about for once!"

The young man graciously took Valjean's five franc piece. When he reached for change, Valjean shook his head, telling him to keep it. Almanzo smiled.

"Take care." He turned to the Inspector.

"Javert, I will note you when the samples are ready."

Javert nodded in affirmation. "Thank you. I will retrieve them personally."

"Understood."

They left the smoke filled café, walking side by side. It was only when they were crossing the congested Rue du Écoles that Valjean gave into his curiosity.

"Why would my paying make the manager happy?"

"Hmm?" Javert gave Valjean a sidelong glance, as they manoeuvred around snorting horses and stationary carriages. Valjean waited patiently until they reached the other side away from the traffic. No imminent answer in sight, he made to ask again, but Javert interrupted.

"The manager owes me a debt. One month of patronage. "Javert smiled wickedly, eyes creasing at the corners. "But what he never realized is exactly how much coffee this one policeman consumes."


	11. 11- An Honest Welcome

Javert sat at his desk Thursday morning, shirtsleeves rolled past his elbows as he picked at his paperwork. The stolid air panted, depositing puffs of heat upon his exposed skin. Rivulets of moisture sinuated down his neck and collected in the folds of his shirt.

But Javert did not notice.

The week had been one long continuum of disappointing colleagues, unfinished leads, and unwarranted problems.

During his routine beats, some men under his command were slow on the uptake, delivering reports a day late. Some often missed essential information or lacked in professionalism. Javert was not a man who procrastinated or became neglectful. It was something that he took pride in. Because of his exacting nature, many of his fellows disdained him for his diligence.

Which was why he was methodical in his choice of confidants and informants.

As always, Almanzo sent him a timely update on his examination of the handwriting. No advancement. However, a small note was written on the bottom: _~Monsieur A. has not stopped by. Last account: May 15__th__._

Monsieur Alain had not been sighted for more than three weeks now.

His absence bothered Javert. It niggled, this new anomaly worming its way in the recesses of his mind. Alain was never missing from his daily street corner. Though homeless, he was habitually punctual man: a trait that Javert appreciated and relied on.

Logic dictated Javert consider other possibilities. Perhaps he retreated to outlying townships or more plausibly, a more profitable district. His quarter wasn't very populous nor was it of a generous nature. A working class neighbourhood, most people worked hard to scrape by, every sou saved. Charity was luxury they couldn't afford.

Despite this, disappearance of M. Alain became another case in which Javert decided to look into.

Even worse, René had fallen into one of his sullen "moods", the kind of which Javert had learned never to address outright. Like a newspaper serial, there was always a new instalment in René's life revolving around household problems. Diatribes and tears were two things that Javert avoided whenever possible.

Instead, Javert kept him occupied with extra work, both men often working in the cramped office past midnight. He also distracted the boy by asking him about his thoughts on work-related matters and past cases. René had a knack for remembering random minutia, ranging from exact dates to the location of specific housing.

Still Javert managed to receive the gist of René's problem: his sister was in desperate need of work. René, the oldest son, was expected to help out even though he was younger than his sister by nine years. A stressful event for any child, even without the handicap of the person in question being a spinster sister.

But to top the week off, Handel Coypel did not show up for his assigned appointment that morning at nine o'clock. It was already ten. This grated upon Javert, as the man wanted to be kept updated on any sort of leads in regards to his son. Correspondence initiated between them confirmed that Monsieur Coypel understood the time and date, but no one came by. Not even a missive cancelling the meeting.

Javert toyed with his whiskers where they rested on his palm. Quickly calculating the time before his afternoon shift, he came to a decision.

He stood up, shoving his chair back. Grabbing his elbow, he stretched his arm behind his back, relishing the pull of muscle after sitting for hours. He rolled his shoulders before removing his grey coat from the back of his chair and slipping it on.

Tugging his coat lapels taut, he fastened the brass buttons up to his throat. Fingers ran along the inside of his collar, smoothing the wrinkles. Fingers combed and smoothed his hair forward, laying the strands upon his forehead and over the tips of his ears. His sideburns received the same treatment, resting neatly on his cheeks and jaw.

Bending, Javert retrieved his scabbard from where it rested on the bottom shelf along with his belt. He quickly pushed the strip of cured leather through the structured loop and wrapped it around his waist, sword settling on his left side. Though heavy, the weapon was a constant support, bolstering his authority with its unspoken presence.

Gathering a folded packet of penned parchment, he placed it into one of his voluminous pockets. His identification card soon followed. He patted his left breast pocket. Feeling the presence of his wallet, Javert turned, shut his window, and jerked the thick curtains shut. Instantly, the room fell dark, a single broken strip of light dividing his office in half.

Before leaving his office, he snagged his top hat off the corner chair and placed it on his head. With one hand, he clicked the door shut and with the other, he locked it. Testing the security, he turned the knob. The door refused to budge.

Satisfied, Javert marched out the dim corridor, and halted by the front desk. Sergeant Grosz bleared at him through hooded eyes. He rubbed them with the heel of his hand before leaning back in his chair and addressing Javert with a gravelly "What do you want?"

"I'm off to check with a case." Javert tapped his chin before adding, "If anyone should ask."

Grosz yawned. His slim boyish face stretched, stressing his large teeth and sharp cheekbones. It ended in a huff as he regarded Javert. He scratched his head.

"Understood. Anything else, Inspector?" Grosz threw him a look that dared him to say more.

"That is all, Sergeant," responded Javert. He turned to leave, but not before issuing one final rejoinder.

"But, I hope you noted that your assignment changed. You are now on my beat for this weekend."

Grosz's eyes bugged. Grumbling curses sputtered forth.

Tipping his hat forward, Javert left the Prefecture, its brass double doors shutting behind him.

* * *

Arriving at the Rue Plumet, Javert was instantly reminded of exactly how quiet Paris could be, if one either had the means or looked hard enough. After dismissing his hired coach, the street was abnormally silent save the chirping of unseen birds and the buzz of bees as they darted over the stone wall to Valjean's rented property.

Javert walked over to the massive gate, its sinuous bars a direct contrast to the ordered stonework of the wall.

Belatedly, Javert pondered how to call upon Valjean. The house was nestled deep within the enclosed landscape.

He peered into the yard. Unlike other well-to-do properties, where Nature was controlled and pruned into order, the garden upon the Rue Plumet was full of riotous growth. Webs of creepers draped over bushes of holly and gardenias with a modest veil of tiny white blossoms. A variety of trees stood watch, interspersed at intervals throughout the well-tended yard. Their budding leaves were overwhelmed by thick piles of pale flowers. The petals dabbed the French grey stonework of Valjean's home with pastel colours of pale pink, lavender, and yellow, effectively hiding most of the structure from view.

Leaning closer for a better look, Javert gripped one hand around the iron wrought bars.

The gate creaked.

Frowning, Javert wrapped his other hand around the bars and pushed.

A loud squeal resounded, dwindling into silence.

Javert stood, staring at the small opening. He crossed his arms, chin in hand.

Despite the loud noise, no one came down the path.

Javert stomped to the gap. Frown deepening, he squeezed inside, not bothering to open the gate any wider. He shoved his hands into his pockets, muttering to himself. The gate stayed mute as he shut it with the heel of his boot.

Javert trudged up the pathway, noting the lack of weeds between the evenly laid stones. The grass was trim, held at bay so it wouldn't obstruct the path. Strangely, random holes dotted the yard, the dirt tossed aside as if an animal foraged there.

A weeping willow trailed invitingly over the winding pathway, the serpentine branches awash in absinthe leaves. Pushing the smooth tendrils aside, Javert made his way to the entrance.

The front door was set with four clear panes closed off with a heavy brocade curtain on the inside. It was painted a plain shade of sage and embedded with an unpretentious display of wainscoting. Though the property had once belonged to an entitled and wealthy gentleman, it wasn't overly lavish or obscene as most tastes belonging to that class of people. Valjean had chosen well.

Wrapping his fingers tightly, he brought his fist to the door—

It swung open.

Valjean lunged forward, bare feet gripping floor. Froth clung to his cheek. Strands of wild, dishevelled hair stuck to his damp beard and face.

His wide eyes snapped to Javert.

Javert took a hasty step backwards, both hands instinctively going to his side. Fingers touched upon his sword hilt before Javert restrained himself.

His gaze shifted between Valjean's open-eyed stare and his fist.

Screwed tightly in Valjean's grasp was a shaving razor, held at an angle. White foam dripped down the lacklustre blade and over his knuckles. Bits of it plopped over the threshold, dotting the area near Javert's polished boots.

Javert opened his mouth. Catching himself, he closed it. He motioned towards Valjean's hand.

"If this is your manner of greeting, could you at least wash your blade first?"

Blinking slowly, Valjean followed Javert's gesture. He stiffened. Comprehension burst upon his face, a pinkish hue staining the tips of his ears.

Javert lifted a brow, loosely crossing his arms.

Not looking at Javert, Valjean half-turned his body, hiding his tinged face with the broad expanse of his back.

Then he began to meticulously clean his razor. He wiped it free of the soap, with one swipe of his thumb. He repeated the action on the other side. Fingers flicked free of the lather into the nearby cypress tree. He rubbed the razor against his breeches, polishing it dry. Finally, he snapped it closed and pocketed it.

Still avoiding Javert, he scooped the foam off his face with the back of his hand, and whipped it into the tree as well. He patted his uneven beard, smoothing the hairs down, before turning back to Javert.

One side was completely trimmed and presentable. The other, patchy.

Javert bowed his head, clenching his eyes shut. His fingers lightly brushed his hair from his forehead. Breathing softly through his mouth, he uttered a single word: "_Merde_."

Smiling sheepishly, Valjean rubbed the back of his head, mussing his hair further.

"Sorry. I wasn't expecting visitors."

Javert pinched the area between his eyes.

"Obviously."

"You did state that you would come by in the early afternoon," tried Valjean.

"Plans change."

Valjean toed one of the spots left by the soap.

"How did you get in?"

Slowly, Javert unfurled his arms, fingers slack against his coat. He stared at Valjean. The man shifted upon the stoop and bent his head slightly. He rubbed his arm before glancing at Javert, a faltering smile on his lips. An idiotic smile, like a child caught in a misdeed, unaware of his transgression.

Javert itched to knock that look off Valjean's face.

"Your gate was unlocked, Valjean! I did not think you so stupid!" cried Javert, punctuating his statement with a stomp of his foot.

"One would think you were expecting visitors with that sort of negligent security!"

He took a step forward, forcing Valjean to look upwards until they were eye-to-eye. "Or do you have an open door policy to any sort of streetwalker that decides he wants to come and visit? Are you trying to invite criminals to your home? Do you leave your windows open at night as well for easy access? Are you thinking ahead, saving yourself the cost of broken windows andbusted doors?"

Javert laughed silently, shaking his head.

"Continue this carelessness Valjean, and you are going to wake up one morning to find that they took your silver and kidnapped your child."

Valjean blanched as he took a step back. His hand gripped the door jab tightly.

Javert sighed and looked off to the side. He ran a hand across his cheek, fingers combing his sideburns.

"I am constantly mystified at how well you oscillate between ingenuity and a complete lack of common sense." He tilted his chin towards Valjean. "Luckily for you, the only danger you've encountered is myself," finished Javert, his tone even.

Valjean lips opened slightly, as if to respond, but a soft click stole his attention.

A small figure had shut a hallway door and made her way to the front. The girl stopped, toes bordering the swatch of sunlight that cut across the floor. She stared unabashedly at Javert, angling her head to the side. When she finished her perusal of Javert, she walked to Valjean.

She tugged on his shirt. "Father, your face is strange."

Valjean rubbed a hand across his jaw.

"Ah, yes, well." Valjean cleared his throat. "I had to answer the door."

"With a most unusual greeting, to be sure," muttered Javert.

"Are you going to finish? It really is strange," repeated the child.

"I must, if two people have told me; so it shall be done. Now, if you will excuse me." Valjean made to shut the door, but stopped. His hand hovered over the handle. He turned, features unreadable.

"Would you like to come inside?"

Javert tensed.

He moved to dismiss the invitation, except, except his coat instantly constricted in protest. His collar, usually a comfortable snugness, now dug into his chin. The material chafed against his neck, and Javert had to resist the urge to tug at it. He was not sure if the sensation would lessen even if he were to do so. The coat's bulky material weighed on his arm, now too heavy, and the folds bunched around his elbow like bands of iron. He dropped his hand.

Valjean's eyes wavered, following the movement.

Javert gave in and rubbed the back of his neck.

Then he removed the hat from his head, the air cool against his exposed scalp.

The tentative smile returned to Valjean's face. Then he directed his attention towards the child. Hand pressed against the small of her back, he lead her into the house.

Javert stepped over the threshold into the cooler air of the dwelling and shut the door.

Before heading upstairs, Valjean offered him a drink and use of his parlour, both of which Javert replied in the negative. He would wait in the foyer since they would be leaving the moment Valjean was finished with his morning toilette. The little girl, Cosette, did not follow Valjean but instead re-entered the room she came from.

Alone, Javert examined the tiny receiving hall. It comprised of a small staircase to the right of the door with the hallway continuing around it to the back of the house. The stairs led up to a tiny upstairs balcony, protected with a cherry bannister. The edge of the steps were burnished a honey-gold where years of feet had habitually tread.

The hall itself was bare, with a few exceptions. A table and a floor rug of woven material lay in front and to the left of Javert, where he stood near the door. Upon the table was a lone wooden candlestick, clean of wax. Flanking the table was an ordinary hat rack, adorned with a child's coat.

Suddenly, the child popped from the doorway on the right. She looked around. Not finding what she was seeking, she withdrew a bit into the other room. Plucking at the sleeves of her shift, she glanced at Javert from underneath her lashes.

Biting her bottom lip, she made a decision and walked resolutely up to Javert.

Looking down at the girl, he waited.

Like the stronger-willed street gamins, she stared right back, mouth set in a grim line.

Javert quirked a brow and inquired, "May I help you?"

Her cheeks puffed outwards for a second before doing an about face. She reached and patted her back.

"Can you help me take off my clothes?"

Javert crossed his arms, his hat dangling from his hand.

"No."

She abruptly spun around.

"Why not? I want to get dressed." She shoved her fists onto her hips.

"You are not my child. Even more, I am a complete stranger to you."

"Well, then," she replied, "I'm Cosette. What's your name, Monsieur?" She thrust out a rosy palm.

Sighing, Javert accepted her greeting. His fingers almost encased the entirety of her miniature hand.

"I am Javert."

"Good morning, Monsieur Javert," she chirped. She swirled around. "Now can you help me?"

Javert took his chin in his hand, a finger resting atop his lip. He waited a moment before replying once again.

"No."

Immediately her hands curled into fists, but before she could respond, heavy footfalls echoed above them. Valjean came into view, neatly shaved. He was clad in a burgundy waistcoat and his shirtsleeves were pulled down to his wrists, the cuffs crisp.

When she saw Valjean, Cosette hopped up and down a couple of times, snagging his attention with her liveliness.

"Father, can you help me unbutton my nightgown?" asked Cosette, fingers groping the small buttons as she tried to reach them again. "Monsieur Javert won't help me."

With a huff she gave up, and crossed her arms. She shot Javert a disgruntled pout.

Valjean laughed. "Come here, child. I will undo your buttons."

Cosette skipped over to her adoptive father. He sat on the bottommost step, beaming as he helped her.

The child threw Javert one of those looks worthy of her sex, full of mischievous guile. The strong dimple in her cheek enhanced her features as she smiled happily, content that her wish was attended to.

Javert snorted as he shook his head. Woe to Valjean in the upcoming years!

Valjean turned the child around.

He spoke softly to her. "My child, I will be going with Inspector Javert. He will be helping me find where I am needed for work."

Cosette turned her head to Javert, cerulean eyes bright in the dim foyer. She returned her attention back to Valjean.

"Yes, Father," replied the child, hands clasped in front of her, bunching the fabric of her nightgown. "Can I play outside then, when you get back? I want to plant some more flowers."

Valjean untangled her hands. He dropped a fleeting kiss to the back of one: the tiny hand a pale pearl in the rough shell of Valjean's palm.

"Of course. We should not be gone long," Valjean glanced in Javert's direction. He gave a curt nod.

"I'll be back in time to prepare our repast."

A fleeting grimace passed over the child's exuberant features. She picked at the hem of her dress.

"Father, can we have vegetables with our meal? I know we should wait until ours grow in our garden, but…" She trailed off hesitantly, turning her gaze to the floor.

Valjean leaned back, attempting to look into the child's face.

He smiled faintly, removing her hands from where they worried the fabric.

"Cosette, you understand that all you have to do is ask. There is no need to fear expressing your needs here. You are a good child."

She smiled in kind and replied with a whispered, "Thank you Father."

"Go and get dressed," grunted Valjean as he stood up too quickly from the floor. "We're leaving now, and—" Valjean threw a look towards Javert. "I will be locking the door."

The two men exited the house, with Valjean securing the entrance. He placed the ornate key into his vest pocket. The procedure was repeated with the main gate, though Valjean refused to look at Javert he did so. Preventive measures complete, Javert took the lead and began walking eastwards.

"We aren't going to the Prefecture?" questioned Valjean, as they strolled through the affluent properties.

"No need to. We are going to your new workplace to obtain your work orders. Also, Commissaire Lautrec states that this process only requires three signatures: the employee, the employer and the parole officer."

Valjean studied the ground.

"What is it then?"

"What do you mean?" asked Javert.

Valjean waved his hand vaguely. "What is my occupation?"

Javert scoffed. "If you must even ask that of me, I suggest you wait."

Lips thinning, Valjean kept his gaze to his left, suddenly interested in the working class neighbourhood that now flanked the roadway.

His snowy brow lowered, and a contemplative look fell upon his unrefined features.

For a man, Valjean was an odd one. He was unexceptionally plain; the kind of man that moved unnoticed and forgotten quickly. Yet, he exuded a sort of memorable presence that lingered in one's conscience.

_Like a current_, he had remarked once, long ago, in Montreuil-sur-Mer.

One can see the effects left behind by a river's current, whether it is good or bad. However only when one looks beneath the surface, or if the river itself falters, can one see its true face. But even then the current flows, constantly changing. Small details are lost. What once was true before was no longer.

_Our Mayor is like a current upon which this town relies upon. _

That statement certainly proved itself true, scoffed Javert inwardly. He remembered how easily the town collapsed. Selfish men tore into the Mayor's profitable enterprise like buzzards upon a carcass. Everything that man had built fell to ruin, ripped to shreds by the very people he had helped.

Javert scowled to himself.

No amount of free charity could ever scrub the faults of tarnished men. Only through one's own personal endeavour and fortitude could that be achieved.

Javert glanced back to Valjean. He was paying no attention to Javert, instead noting his surroundings with unmitigated interest.

Despite years of observation, Valjean persisted as an enigma. Who was Jean Valjean? The criminal from Toulon had emerged that one night, nearly thrashing a stranger with his ferocity. Then there was Monsieur Madeline, the paragon of charitable initiative and humble rectitude. The man who single-handedly erected a bustling town from its backwater roots.

Yet, here was _this_ man. This man who wanted to keep to himself and raise a dead prostitute's daughter. Who kept his doors unlocked yet refused to reveal the inner workings of his mind.

Where were the lines drawn between truth and fiction in regards to this man, this Jean Valjean?

Silently, he two men continued eastward through winding roads that contracted until they were no more than pedestrian passageways. Javert lead Valjean into a littered alley with a single black streetlamp at the end. When they exited, a modest church façade greeted them, the plain whitewashed walls blending effortlessly with the surrounding structures. A small engraving was pinned to it, revealing it to be the church of the Saint Fidelis.

The chapel perched immediately on the crooked street. A solitary stair held back the burgeoning façade as it overlooked the street. The massive door was comprised of slats of refined wood, fit snuggly against each other and bound by bands of iron. A small ditty reached their ears as the steeple bell rang out a noonday welcome.

Javert knocked on the door and was immediately greeted by a leathery priest. His angular face was capped with short grey hair. The man broke into a wrinkled smile when he saw Javert and Valjean and welcomed them both into the sanctuary.

Getting straight to business, Javert conversed with the man regarding Valjean's position. They stayed in the antechamber, near the short receiving table. Meanwhile, Valjean wandered the chapel, examining the unadorned pews and intricate stained glass windows. When Javert was finished with his discussion, he called Valjean over.

Javert relayed the information to Valjean: he was to work for Father Sérusier as both a gardener and groundskeeper for the cemetery. Valjean gave him a peculiar look before introducing himself to the priest. The two men began speaking animatedly about plans for future groundwork and upkeep.

Having prepared the paperwork beforehand, Javert motioned the two men over. Both studied their prospective documents, which outlined Valjean's tentative work schedule, hours needed, and stipulations required. Afterwards, each man signed their papers with Javert's name embellishing the end of both.

Next, Father Sérusier offered Valjean a tour of the property. Valjean agreed and thanked the man with a slight bow of his head.

The church was the cornerstone of the property, flanked by the unevenly distributed land around it. On the left obscured by brick wall, was a half-acre garden, accessible only by a wrought-iron gate. A bent placard hung from the blackened metal with the inscription:_ Available from dawn to dusk. _Inside, a multitude of weeds and plants fought for territory in the scant space provided.

On the other side of the land was the cemetery, also protected by the same steadfast wall. This acreage was larger, as a majority of the property was reserved specifically for the purpose of housing the dead. Overarching branches and gnarled trunks of yew rose over the wall, guardians for the departed. Their dense collection of silvery leaves bordered the cloudless sky. Neglected headstones were bedecked with tall grasses and swatches of clinging ivy. Like the garden, a matching gate provided entrance to the cemetery, though it was proportionally larger.

As the heat began to settle upon the trio of men, they retreated into the meagre shade of the recessed entranceway.

Taking their leave, Valjean grasped the priest's hand in a firm handshake, emphasizing his gratitude.

A very jolly man, even for a priest, Father Sérusier laughed richly, clamping a thick hand on Valjean's shoulder.

"Oh ho! As much as I appreciate the sentiment, and believe me, I do, I am not the one that deserves your appreciation." Father Sérusier gave Valjean a loud pat on his shoulder before stepping back.

Javert stiffened where he stood off to the side. His fingers tightened around the brim of his hat.

The priest continued. "You understand the earth, my friend. As do I. But these hands of mine, they can no longer cultivate the stony soil; only stony hearts. You have seen it. Our grounds are untamed, rife with weeds and thistle. And being a small church, funds are hard to come by, so we rely on the goodwill of our flock. But folks only have so much they can spare."

"Given this," he continued, drawing Valjean's attention to Javert with a sweep of his arm, "you can certainly imagine my surprise and delight when the good inspector came by, asking if I was in need of a gardener!" Father Sérusier chuckled.

At the mention of Javert, Valjean's brows edged his eyes. Covered in faint shadow with the slant of his forehead, his eyes tilted towards Javert. Javert studiously ignored this, and did not meet Valjean's gaze, directing his attention to his coat sleeve instead. Then Valjean returned his attention back to the priest. He promised to start his duties the following Monday.

Together, Javert and Valjean left the Saint Fidelis and headed back towards the Rue Plumet. Javert took the same path as before, to ensure that Valjean would be able to navigate the streets as well as he.

After a mile of traversing the dim, constricted streets, the pathways became wider, thus allowing more of the unwavering noonday sun to beat down upon them. A couple of carriages rumbled past with horses snorting heavily and covered in sweaty lather. Other than that, many of the inhabitants on this residential street remained indoors, out of the heat.

On their left, they walked past a tiny alley between two apartments. The entrance was nearly obstructed by a multitude of stacked clay pots; the uppermost were layered with an overgrowth of grasses and dandelion weeds.

Javert's skin prickled. A faint movement edged his vision.

He halted and threw out his arm. Valjean's chest lightly brushed against his bare hand. Javert dropped it.

Eyes trained forward, he could see Valjean's questioning face through his peripheral vision. But that was not what interested him. It was the figure that stumbled into the cramped passage, as if returning belatedly from a night of revelry. When the figure straightened and rose to an obscenely lofty height, Javert resumed walking, but at a faster clip.

Valjean jogged to catch up, his bulky frame creating an unwanted racket. Javert strained to listen past his stomping footfalls.

His ears picked up on a sharp _crack!_ as the man toppled a pot, followed by the grating sound of pottery scraping across stone.

An empty passage revealed itself to their immediate right.

Javert's hand flew outwards, lightning quick, snatching up Valjean's wrist.

Valjean's eyebrows jumped at the touch, but by some providence he did not make a noise. Javert had no time to be grateful for this small mercy. Tugging Valjean into the tight alleyway was an easy task, though he kept trying to look back.

Once inside, Javert quickly scanned the small space. It was devoid of both people and property.

Javert pressed against the wall, peering around the corner. In the space they had just left, a wavering figure could be seen, emerging from the barricade of abandoned pottery. Valjean came close to the opening, edging his head forward to peer out. His head was too far out, an inch further and-

Snatching a fistful of Valjean's waistcoat, Javert yanked him back.

"Wha—"

Javert instantly clapped a hand over Valjean's mouth. Soft facial hair grazed his skin. Javert forced his eyes to the opening.

"Be silent Valjean."

Javert wrapped his other arm around Valjean's shoulders and backed both of them against the wall, pushing Valjean down until they were both crouching. Once assured that they could not be seen, he breathed, then detached his hand from Valjean's shoulder. He removed his hat. Valjean did not make as if to stir, but Javert rested his arm on Valjean's shoulders again as a precaution, the hat clenched tightly in his hand.

The small space was closed, hidden from the sunlight that wasn't able to extend into the alleyway. Javert's iron coat melded effortlessly into the slate and stone. Fully enveloped in grey shadow, they waited.


End file.
